Maybe This Time
by missmandamargo
Summary: Quinn and Santana deal with the aftermath of Santana's accident, while readjusting to life in Lima. Sequel to Fool's Game. This story is in a hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Honey, you've got a package!"

My mom's voice filtered through my bedroom door. I glanced up from my textbook, mentally running through the possible things I could receive in the mail. I don't think I had recently ordered anything from Amazon..

I shifted, rolled off my bed, and walked out of my room. I could hear my mom clattering around downstairs, doing whatever it was she did. She was probably cleaning things that didn't really need to be cleaned while drinking her eighth glass of wine.

The box was resting on the bottom step. It was plain and brown, and even before I read the shipping label I knew where it was from. I let out a little sigh and picked it up. It was remarkably light.

"I'm never going to stop getting these," I said, to no one in particular. My mom was in the dining room, arranging the dishes in the china cabinet.

"Oh, really, dear?" My mother said, with her back to me.

I looked at her for a second before I just shook my head. I knew she wasn't listening to me.

I started tugging at the clear packing tape that held down the folds of the cardboard box. It made soft ripping noises in the relative quiet of the living room.

I didn't expect to see the little plush unicorn there. It was mixed in with a few items of clothing, a CD with a cracked case, and a notebook with a white crease down the front of it. The unicorn was white with a rainbow mane and huge blue eyes.

It isn't mine. It's Santana's. It's something Brittany gave Santana a while ago.

I didn't really acknowledge the feeling I got when I saw the thing. It was something Santana had kept close to her for the first few weeks at Atherton, but gradually it migrated to the space between her mattress and the wall, shoved down there – either accidentally or on purpose – and forgotten.

Clearly Santana had forgotten about it, or else she would have taken it with her when she left. Unlike me, Santana had known she was leaving Atherton at the break. I didn't. So when I made the decision to transfer back to McKinley after the New Year, my parents had had to get the staff at Atherton to pack and ship my stuff to me.

There are things I'm certain I'll never get back. And then there are things I never expected to get in the first place.

Santana's Brittany unicorn is one of them.

"That's cute, dear. What's his name?" I looked up at my mother, who was hovering near me. I could smell the scent of red wine on her, more overwhelming than her flowery perfume. She was wearing a longsleeved dress with flower print, and her hair was up in a perfect bun. Her face was flushed and her eyes were glassy.

"Mother, really?" I lifted an eyebrow. She always talked to me like this, patronizing – as if I was still a child.

I think it's easier for her that way, to still imagine me a little kid. Better than the alternative.

She made a little noise in her throat and turned away from me, and I immediately regretted being so cold to her. It would have been kinder to play along, act like the toy was something I treasured. It would have made her happy.

I'm not very good at that lately, making my mother happy. Or anyone, really.

There was a brief moment where I considered calling her back, trying to connect to her by pretending to be something I'm not. Part of me really wanted to, since it was the pattern I had been clinging to with my parents for so long. But the moment passed, and I didn't. My mother drifted back into the dining room and it felt like there was a widening gulf between us. I didn't try to stop it.

I walked back up to my room, holding the box in my arms. I sorted through the clothes and hung up the ones that were clean. I flipped through the notebook and threw it away. The CD was Santana's, so I opened a drawer in my desk and put it in there with the rest of the things that were hers that I still had.

I held the unicorn, debating. Really, I had a few options. I could put it in the desk drawer and wait to give it to Santana, just like I was holding on to the rest of her things. Or I could give it to Brittany. She might want it back.

I ran my thumb over the embroidered eye, feeling the texture against my skin. I briefly brought the toy to my face and inhaled, and closed my eyes when I was met with the smell that reminded me of Santana. I dropped it away from my face and sighed. I walked over to my bed and sat it down on top of my pillows.

It's weird and twisted, I know. I probably shouldn't be cuddling up to a stuffed animal that another person gave the person I love, before we were ever involved. The unicorn obviously represented the feelings Brittany had for Santana, or vice versa. It was special to both of them.

I guess I'm a masochist. Well, no, I don't guess. I know I am. Why else would I have put myself in this situation, again?

I spent last year watching the person I love fall in love with another person. That would be Finn and Rachel. And the whole time, I had a bastard baby growing in my belly and I felt trapped and chained to a life I felt I had no way out of. The idea of giving the baby up for adoption really only came to me when I realized I had no other option – because I liked my life, I liked being sixteen and popular and pretty, I liked being a teenager. I wasn't ready to be somebody's mom. And when Finn finally realized the baby wasn't his, and he fell into Rachel's arms, that sort of was the final straw for me. No way could I raise a baby with Noah Puckerman. I didn't want to raise one with Finn, either, but Finn was the better of the two choices.

I was glad then and I'm glad now I made that decision. My daughter is being raised by a responsible and successful woman, and she'll have a life I could never provide for her. My head knows all of these things, and logically it should make it okay. But everything happened so quickly, even though it felt like I was pregnant forever. Sometimes my heart still feels like it's playing catch up with my mind, and it aches and hurts and misses the baby I never got to hold or love.

I don't really dwell on it. I honestly think my mother thinks more about my daughter than I do. Sometimes, at night, when I go to the bathroom or go to get a drink of water, I can hear her crying in her room. At first I thought it was because she misses my dad, or maybe even my sister, who almost never visits. But once I saw her door cracked open and I looked in, and she was clutching a tiny teddy bear she'd bought for Beth before I knew she wanted me to keep her. She hadn't really had a chance to give the bear to Beth, and I think it bothers her.

We don't talk about it. We don't talk about anything important in my family.

What was I saying? Oh, right, about me being a masochist. See, I watched Finn fall in love with Rachel, and I was helpless to stop it. And even though I wasn't really _in love_ with Finn, I did love him. It hurt to see him find happiness with someone else.

I love Santana. I'm more in love with Santana than I've ever been with anyone in my life, and it's just psychotic for me to feel that way when not only have I always known she was in love with someone else, but that she was too afraid and delusional to admit it to anyone, including herself.

I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess. I know that the situation is a clusterfuck and one day it's going to blow up in my face.

I'm a little used to that by now, though. It won't surprise me when it happens.

I checked the time on my phone and sighed, realizing it was getting late. Just the fact that my mother was still downstairs, pretending to dust or clean or whatever, meant she probably would spend the rest of the night chugging wine from the bottle and crying. I'll wake up tomorrow and she'll be passed out somewhere weird, like in the kitchen in front of the oven or in the bathtub.

I don't blame her. I guess it's hard to be judgmental about anyone when I've made my share of mistakes in life, and I'm not even an adult yet.

I closed my textbook and slid it into my backpack, zipped it up, and walked over to set it by my door.

I clicked the lamp off in my room and pulled my comforter down, and slid beneath the blankets.

Now, in the dark, I didn't feel so weird about holding the plush unicorn against my face and smelling it. It helped me feel closer to Santana, somehow. I knew that Santana had probably done the exact same thing to it that I was doing, over countless nights. It was something that Santana loved, and so I loved it, too.

* * *

Thanks to Santana, getting dressed for school is now something of an Olympic event. Before, whenever I went to McKinley, I was on the Cheerios and therefore had a mandated wardrobe. And while I was pregnant it wasn't like I had a whole lot of options. But my regular wardrobe had been mostly discarded over the months I spent as Santana's roommate, and now it felt like every day was a constant struggle to choose something that sent the right message.

It was easy before, because my clothes were all just different variations of the same thing. A long skirt, a loose blouse, and a cardigan. The colors, fabrics, and print might vary, but generally they were all the same. Now, I had to choose between skirts – not the kind that went all the way to the ankle – or jeans, shorts, capris. I even had some khakis and slacks. Then there was the whole shirt situation. You never really know which is going to be the right choice. A baby tee with a v-neck in a pastel color? A regular t-shirt with a college logo on it? A double layer of tanktops? The choices are endless, really.

I shouldn't have let her throw away my clothes. This is just frustrating.

I wore dark skinny jeans and a pale pink t-shirt that made me feel like it was hugging me in all the wrong places. I still felt a little awkward in my body since I had Beth, and it was almost a year ago. Being pregnant changes you – no matter how old you are. My boobs are bigger and more saggy, and I doubt they'll ever go back to the way they were. My hips are definitely wider. My thighs are chubbier. And I have this fine networking of stretch marks over my lower stomach and my hips that nothing will ever change.

It's like a brand, applied directly to my skin, for the whole world to see. I might eventually drop the extra pounds and I could get cosmetic surgery to return my teenage boobs to me, but I'll never be able to get rid of the stretch marks. I had a few before I got pregnant, I think every girl does, but the ones I have now are very indicative of pregnancy. And I read in a magazine that even plastic surgery can't do much for stretch marks. I'm doomed to have them for the rest of my life.

I guess it's not that big of a deal, if I can find people who don't care or don't notice. Santana never seemed to. She was always too preoccupied with paying attention to other parts of my body, but I still felt gross and awkward whenever I felt her hands running over the places I knew I had them.

It's different with Santana, though. It could be because she's a girl, and I assume she'd be less judgmental of things like that. But then again, that doesn't make sense, because girls are probably _doubly_ judgmental about body issues like that. And I know Santana notices girls' bodies and judges them about them. Last year, her and Brittany gave Mercedes hell about losing weight so she could stay on the Cheerios. Santana is like a mini-Sue when it comes to counting calories, carbs, and maintaining the proper muscle:fat ratio.

I've even heard rumors that Santana is anorexic. That was last year, while I was pregnant and I felt as fat as a cow, though. I didn't really blame Santana when I heard the rumors because I felt disgusting and I could only imagine what I would do if I had control over my body and keeping it thin. I know now that Santana isn't anorexic.. she just has a skewed idea of healthy food intake, and that's both because of Sue's brainwashing and because of society.

I'm not as a picky about stuff like that nowadays. I try to find pleasure in simple things, and food is one of them. I like food. Hey, who doesn't? That doesn't mean I don't still feel strange when I look at myself in the mirror sometimes. Like maybe that isn't my body reflected back at me. Where did my body go? It hasn't felt right since before I got pregnant.

I managed to avoid my mother on the way downstairs and out of my house. I glimpsed her lying on the couch in the living room, a wet rag over her face and a glass with water on the coffee table. I didn't know if she was awake or asleep, and I didn't bother to check. She'd be miserable and hungover so there wasn't a point, anyway.

I drove to school and tried to mentally prepare myself for the day. It was only Wednesday, so I knew I had to get through today and two more days before I had the weekend.

I used to love going to school. I anticipated it almost the same way some people might anticipate getting money or jewelry. That was when I was still young and obsessed with popularity and labels and had everything figured out.

Something they don't tell you: the older you get, the less you know, and the more you realize that, the worse it is.

Why doesn't anybody explain that to you? I think it would have helped me out a lot to hear it at fifteen.

Not that it would have made a difference, I'm sure.

I pulled into the parking lot at McKinley and just watched the students going about their business. It was early spring and everything was so green it almost hurt to look at it. The football players were goofing off in one corner of the parking lot, and another group of kids were laughing at a Youtube video playing on somebody's phone.

It doesn't feel like I belong here anymore. I feel sort of like a ghost, someone who just drifts through the hallways and exists, never really touching anything.

I got out of my car and grabbed my backpack. I mentally made a beeline to the doors that would avoid direct contact with anyone who might want to talk to me.

"Hey, Quinn!"

No such luck. I glanced over to the form next to me.

It was Brittany.

"Good morning."

She smiled at me and I had to smile back at her. She looked cute and glossy and put together this morning, in her Cheerios outfit, with her hair up in a ponytail. It gave me a slight pang to see her wearing it, when I wasn't, but I ignored it.

"Did you do anything fun yesterday?" Brittany asked.

I shook my head no, and we entered the school building together. "What about you?" I asked.

Brittany tilted her head and seemed to think about it. "I gave Lord Tubbington a bath. He got a little grumpy about it, but I think it's because he's going through the DTs and doesn't know how to cope."

I smiled at Brittany, not entirely sure if she was being serious or joking. She showed me her forearms and they had a few ragged-looking cat scratches on them. I made a grimace. "Ouch."

"Yeah, he was being rude. I forgive him though." Brittany scanned the hallway, looking for someone. "Oh, there's Artie. I told him I'd show him how to play Bingo this morning. Bye!"

Just like that, she was gone.

Things were awkward between Brittany and me for the first few weeks I came back to McKinley. But Brittany has a way of bulldozing past awkward barriers and it hadn't taken us long to find a rhythm again.

Just like when I first went to Atherton and I had to learn how to be friends with Santana separate from Brittany, I had had to learn how to be friends with Brittany separate from Santana. It was much, much easier with Brittany. She was simple and straight forward, and we had just enough in common that things were easy.

Sometimes I think she goes out of her way to be friendly towards me, though. Like she wants to make sure I realize she's not mad at me. Which is fine. If I could think of a way to do that to her without being too obvious or too weird, I'd do the same thing.

Everyone in the glee club is a little weird around me now, though. They all talk to me in quiet voices and with soft, guarded faces, like they're afraid I'm going to have a mental break down at any moment. I could understand them acting like that around me while I was pregnant – I mean, I was completely hormonal and homicidal. Now, though, it's just annoying.

It's not like I'm the only one who lost Santana.

We all did.

And I really don't think any of them know about me and Santana being more than friends, besides Brittany and Rachel. Well, which means that it's really up in the air about what the other kids know. Brittany's mind is a little fragmented and it's possible she could have said anything. And Rachel is a huge blabbermouth. I wonder if she told Finn.

I don't care. It's not something I intend to worry about right now.

And if anyone was going to say anything about it, I imagine they would have done so already.

The next person who decided to try to talk to me was Mercedes. She is both easier to deal with than Brittany, and also harder. Mercedes has a brain that follows a path of logic that I can usually relate to, so our conversations tend to make more sense than any I have with Brittany. But Mercedes isn't as uncomplicated as Brittany, which creates unique problems between us.

"Hey, girl," Mercedes said, in that soft, delicate tone of voice that practically _everyone_ talks to me in now.

She watched me shuffle textbooks into my locker. It was barren. I hadn't put up any of the usual things because it felt weird to come here, mid-year, and put up pictures of me in a cheerleading magazine when I'm not a cheerleader anymore. I didn't want to put up pictures of me, Santana and Brittany because that was just too painful. And the one picture of glee club I have is a little useless, since three of the members aren't attending McKinley anymore.

"Hey." I didn't look at her. I usually didn't try to drag out conversations with her.

"Are you coming to glee today after school?"

I shrugged. I wasn't sure yet.

"What about the God Squad?"

Mercedes had opened a club for Christians early in the year. I think she and the new guy, Sam, were the only two people in it.

I shook my head.

"Are you sure?" Mercedes bit her lip and gave me a heavy look. "We'd really like to have you—"

"Thank you." I cut her off, and then closed the door to my locker. "But I don't have time."

Mercedes was quiet for a minute, and then she nodded.

Rachel had also tried to get me to join the celibacy club again, now that Miss Pillsbury was captaining it.

I'd pretty much rather punch myself in the face.

I gave Mercedes a small little half smile, to let her know I wasn't just brushing her off. Well, I was, but it's not personal. I really don't have time.

I barely make it to glee club anymore, and really, that's just because it would be more stress not to go. I make an appearance twice or three times a week, and it keeps the glee kids off my back.

I don't sing anymore, though. They somehow got themselves through regionals – I really don't know how, because they didn't have me, Santana, or Kurt – and were preparing for nationals in New York.

I can't bring myself to think about preforming. I'm not going to say that the idea is _traumatic_ for me or anything, but let's be honest. Last year, I went into labor at regionals. This year, our sectionals with the Atherton show choir ended in Santana going into some kind of emotional coma for weeks.

It also reminded me too much of her.

I walked to my first class and Mercedes drifted away.

I spend most of my days like this, now. Making superficial conversations with people that I used to care about, trying to figure out a way to get from one hour to the next. Evading the worried looks and platitudes, the whispers and the concern.

I was left pretty much in peace until lunch time. Then the only person at this school who seems determined to grind me down into nothingness found me.

"Teen Mom!"

I let out a resolute sigh and turned around to face her. I was clutching a lunch tray that had a sloppy serving of chicken and dumplings and a roll on a styrofoam platter.

"Coach." I tried to be polite, even though there wasn't any point. These exchanges were never pleasant.

Sue Sylvester sneered at me, disdain written all over her face. "I don't see how you have the hubris to walk around my school after the indignation you've wrought on yourself. You should be hiding underneath the rock that houses the other social rejects, like those who participate in the A/V club."

I nodded, brooding in silence. These things were better if I didn't allow myself to be provoked.

"I still can't believe how I went out of my way for you – and for what! You're ungrateful and mentally unsound. I should petition to have you committed."

I pressed my lips together and repressed a sigh.

"Sue!"

For the first time in a long time, I was grateful to hear Mr. Schue's voice ring out over the din of the lunchroom.

Coach Sylvester turned to him, and I quickly walked away.

I tried to find an empty table, but there wasn't one. Reluctantly I wandered over to where Brittany was seated with a handful of girls from the Cheerios, and also Tina and Rachel.

It was still weird to me to see Cheerios eating with people like Rachel, but I guess things were a little bit more relaxed.

Maybe it was only because I was the captain that such strict lines were held between the classes of students.

"Hello, Quinn." Rachel was giving me her patently annoying smile.

I nodded to her and started shaking up my juice container.

"Are you coming to glee club today?" Rachel asked.

I narrowed my eyes and tried not to sigh. "I might."

Brittany looked at me over a mouthful of applesauce. "Are you going to see Santana today?"

It got really quiet when she asked.

Tina and Rachel both looked at me, almost on bated breath.

I glanced around at the three of them, trying to digest the sudden silence, and then nodded. "Yes, I am."

Brittany just watched my face, her own expression open and curious. Sometimes I wish I could read her mind. Well – scratch that. Somehow I think being able to read Brittany's mind might be extremely confusing and slightly frightening. I just mean, I guess I wish she and I had the sort of relationship where I just knew what her faces meant, or that asking her wouldn't end up in her giving me a slew of words that tangled together into sentences that made no sense to me.

"I think it's so nice that you're so devoted to her," Rachel said finally.

In true Rachel fashion, she said probably the most obnoxious and untimely thing. I didn't stop myself from rolling my eyes and scoffing this time.

"Yeah. Tell her we all miss her." Tina said, without looking at me.

I wanted to tell her that if they wanted Santana to get a message, they very well could tell her themselves.

I didn't, though. Being hostile wasn't worth it.

"Tell her I love her." Brittany said quietly.

I looked at her and tried to read her expression again.

She was staring down at her tray and wasn't eating anymore. Her face looked a little downcast, but that could mean so many things. I try not to put my own interpretation on how Brittany feels, because I'm often wrong. Her downcast face could just mean she was contemplating the likelihood of a dragon battling against Pikachu and who would win.

"She knows that already, Britt." I said into the tense silence around us.

Brittany nodded and broke open her dinner roll.

"I'd come see her myself, but," Brittany looked up at me and her eyes were hesitant. "You know. Her dad.."

I nodded. I wasn't exactly sure what the situation was, but Santana's dad really didn't like it when Brittany visited.

It was hard to find a time around his schedule, because he worked as a surgeon for the E.R. at the hospital where Santana was. So he was unpredictable and he often checked in on Santana during his shift.

In the beginning, Brittany hadn't cared. She'd been almost as reluctant as me to spend any time away from Santana. But one too many encounters with Doctor Lopez had scared Britt away, and I didn't blame her.

He is kind of intimidating.

"I'll text you and let you know if he's working tonight, if you want to come up." I offered.

Brittany nodded.

I was grateful when lunchtime ended. It was exhausting trying to find ways to talk to these people, who used to be my closest friends.

* * *

I didn't end up going to the glee club meeting. It was all full of the excitement of nationals and I knew I'd spend the whole time impatient, ready to leave so I could go visit Santana. The first few weeks back in Lima, I hadn't spent any time away from her that I possibly could. Eventually, though, as the weeks turned to months, I realized I couldn't spend every second cooped up with her in a hospital room.

It wasn't healthy, and people were beginning to notice.

I didn't really care about that, but my mother started talking about how I might need therapy and so I made myself spend time at glee club and occasionally come home for dinner, just to give the pretense that I wasn't completely obsessed with my 'friend' in the hospital.

It definitely wasn't fooling any of my friends, but it kept my mom from calling in an army of shrinks.

By now, Lima General is a hospital I'm intimately familiar with. Santana has been here since mid-December, and it's the end of March. Next week is spring break.

Some of the nurses and aides recognize me. They give me friendly little waves and nods whenever I walk by.

It's hard for me to be here, because of Beth. It's harder because of Santana, though.

She's in the long term I.C.U. wing. I think if it weren't for her dad being a surgeon at this hospital they probably would have moved her to a facility that provides care for people in her condition for the long run.

I knocked briskly on her hospital door and then opened it. I knew there probably wouldn't be anybody inside.

Even after all these months, seeing Santana lying on a hospital bed still ties my stomach into nauseous knots. She's only gotten smaller and more fragile as time went on. Her skin is now pale, no longer really tan, and her hair is brittle and seems less full. Her eyes look sunken and she has pallid bluish circles beneath them.

It's her lips that bother me the most, though. They're probably the most striking feature she has, next to her eyes. And they've always been plump and healthy looking, naturally a vibrant shade of pink. Now they're pale and colorless, and they look like they're shrinking on her face.

It doesn't matter to me, though. I walked over to her and sat my backpack down on one of the chairs they have pulled up next to her.

I take a moment to check my cell phone, send my mom a text, and make sure nothing too important is going to happen in the next few hours. Then I turn my phone on silent and shove it deep inside my backpack.

I carefully slid my body into the bed next to Santana's, and noticed how it was easier to do now than it had been a week ago. Santana was losing weight, even though the doctors promised they were giving her enough food and muscle stimulation. It was obvious just by looking at her, but even more so lying next to her on the thin, hard mattress of her hospital bed.

I didn't hesitate to pull the blankets up around us and shift until I was curled against her. She didn't smell like Santana anymore; instead, she smelled like iodine, the anti-microbial soap they use to sponge bathe her, and the weird, peculiar scent of hospital that is slightly nauseating.

I was careful with her, because she had a series of IVs attached to her left side. I always slid in beside her on the right, but I didn't want to pull out a catheter or mess with the monitors that tracked her brain and organ functions.

I spent a moment just looking at her face, and watching her. She looked like she was sleeping, and most of the time I convinced myself that she was. It made it easier to get through the day, to think that she's just asleep and will eventually wake up.

I rested my head on her shoulder and just listened to the way her chest breathed in and out, and the way her heart pumped. Everything sounded normal inside of her. I could hear the persistent _beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor and the other gadgets that translated what was left of Santana's life into mechanical data.

It didn't take me long to fall asleep. I wrapped my hand around hers and held it while I drifted off.

_ "I know. But it's not enough." I watched Santana get into her car quickly and drive away._

_ I watched her drive away and thought that I would do whatever I could to fix it between us when we had the time._

_ Turns out, we wouldn't get any more time._

_ I didn't see her crash. She was too far ahead of me, and it was full dark by the time I pulled onto the highway. Santana always does drive pretty crazy when she's upset._

_ I should have remembered that. I should have stopped her._

_ I might not have even seen her car if it wasn't for a rabbit darting across the road. I had tapped my breaks in order to avoid it, and something about the way my headlines reflected on the snowy highway cast a reflection on the trunk of the car sticking out of the side of the road._

_ I might have kept on driving, if I hadn't recognized the bumper sticker._

_ I think about that all the time. I think about how a crazy string of events led me to finding Santana wrecked into that snow bank, and how if I hadn't, she would probably be dead._

_ I skid my car to a halt, my stomach jumping in terror at what I saw. I didn't want to believe it. My mind was furious and blank all at once. It felt wooden and automatic for me to put my car in park, turn on my flashers, and then slowly open the door and walk back up the highway._

_ The closer I got, the more sure I was. My heart felt paralyzed in my chest and I had to swallow back wave after wave of nausea and panic. With shaky, trembling fingers, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1._

_ "9-1-1 operator, what's your emergency?"_

_ "There's been an accident."_

_ "What type of accident?"_

_ "A car wreck."_

_ "Are there any injuries?"_

_ I had to swallow on that one. "I don't know."_

_ "All right miss. What's your location?"_

_ I did my best to describe to them where I was. The whole time I was just staring at the car. It was dark and quiet. Too quiet, really._

_ "Are you able to check the car for occupants?"_

_ I don't know why I felt so weirdly calm. I walked closer towards the front of the car, and had to use my fists to shove snow away from the driver's door. The front half of the car was wrapped around the guard rail, and snow covered the roof._

_ I pressed a hand to my mouth to steady myself when I finally saw Santana inside. Her head was lolled to one side and she was clearly unconscious. I knocked on the glass and nothing happened._

_ "Yes, the driver's inside but she's…" What? She's what? "She's hurt I think."_

_ "Okay. Don't try to move her. Paramedics are on their way."_

_ I hung up the phone and began to furiously kick and dig at the snow, trying to get it away from Santana's door._

_ Once I found the door handle, I pulled on it, only to find that the door was locked._

_ "Fuck!" I screamed, even though nobody was there._

_ Santana turned to look at me, slowly. There was blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth and her eyes were clouded over. The sight made my heart pound and my stomach clench._

_ "It's not enough, Quinn," She said, and I could hear her perfectly even though the car door was locked and the window was up. "You don't love me enough."_

_ "No," I whispered, horrified. "No, I do love you enough, Santana. I do!"_

_ "It's not enough.."_

I was jolted awake by the firm hand of someone pressing against my shoulder.

By old habit, I went absolutely still instead of flailing out. My heart was pounding in my ribcage and my lungs were constricted around sobs that wanted to fall out, but couldn't.

I looked up at the face of Jackie, one of the nurses that regularly attended Santana.

"It's getting late," She said, apologetically.

I just nodded and rubbed my eyes with one palm.

Jackie was a middle-aged woman with curly red hair and bright lipstick. She always reminded me a little bit of Lucille Ball.

"Dr. Lopez came in about an hour ago." Jackie told me.

I looked at her and then shrugged, slowly.

It was creepy to know he saw me sleeping in the same bed with his daughter, but then, I'm sure it's not the first time. He was always polite and cordial to me, even though he was brusque and distant. I had seen him be downright rude to Brittany though, and I wanted to try to make sure I never got on those terms with him.

"Thanks." My voice cracked because I had been sleepy.

I didn't feel rested. In fact, I felt more exhausted than I did before I went to sleep.

I had that same dream almost every night. It was a pretty accurate memory of what had happened the day I left Atherton, but of course Santana hadn't looked at me or talked to me. No, she'd stayed motionless and still on the other side of the window, and I spent twenty minutes sobbing and pounding against the glass, trying to get her to wake up.

I had felt more powerless and hopeless in those twenty minutes than I ever have in my entire life. I couldn't stand the thought that Santana was slowly suffocating, or maybe bleeding to death, or hell, even just dying, only about a foot away from me and I had no way to get to her.

They ended up having to use a torch and some giant machine to get Santana's door off. I watched them load her up onto a gurney and her body disappeared inside the EMT.

I knew, then, that she was still alive. They told me that much. I didn't find out exactly what was wrong with her until much later, and that was only because I had gone a little crazy on Santana's mother.

Jackie checked Santana's chart, scribbled something down, and then threw me a tired smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo." She turned to go.

I sighed and looked at Santana once again. I waited until I heard the heavy hospital door click shut before I reached up and drew my fingertips along the definition of her lips, tracing them gently.

Her skin was cold. It always is. It's still a bit of a shock to me, but I'm getting used to it. I ran my fingers over her cheekbone and then down her jawline, finally brushing against her neck. I pressed my fingertips against her pulse point and felt the blood thrum there in a steady rhythm.

It was reassuring, even though the computers beeped out the regularity of her heartbeat. I still liked being able to feel that it was working, instead of just seeing or hearing it.

"I have to go," I murmured to her. The words were so quiet they were like a whisper. "I'll come back tomorrow." I shifted away from her and stood up.

I looked down at her on the bed. Her head was slightly tilted to one side, and the fingers of her hand were spread apart on the sheet. I reached down and tugged the blankets back up around her shoulders, and then smoothed them down.

"How much longer, Santana?" I asked, even though I knew she wouldn't answer me. "This is getting really hard for me, here. I need you to wake up soon."

She gave no indication that she heard me. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, gently, careful I didn't leave any lip gloss smudges. I squeezed her hand one more time. "I love you," I whispered it to her.

I turned to go. I checked again to make sure her cell phone was plugged in and within easy reach, right by her bedside table.

It's silly, I know. But I imagine if she woke up from a three month long coma that she'd want to be able to get in touch with people as soon as possible.

Funny, how that fragile little device – nothing but plastic, glass, and wires, really – made it through the car wreck unscathed. But Santana, who is the strongest, most stubborn person I know, is rendered helpless and barely alive because of some glancing blow against her head.

It's ironic, wouldn't you say?

I really hate irony.

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, guys! Here it is. Sorry it took so long. I'd be happy to answer any questions you have on my tumblr - missmandamargo dot tumblr dot com.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

I had a strange dream that night, after I left the hospital.

It starts out with Santana and I back at Atherton, her lying on the quilt we put out in the rose garden. I have a textbook in my lap, and I can tell by the way Santana's breathing is slowing down that she is close to falling asleep. I reach over and pull her sunglasses off, and I see her blinking against the morning sunshine.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask her.

"Brittany," Santana admits with a bit of a half-smile.

I smile at her, and then the textbook in my lap is replaced by a big black cat with glinting yellow eyes.

"You're a lot like a cat," I tell Santana, and rub my fingertips behind the kitty's ear.

"It's cute you like housecats," Santana smiles at me, her old, full-lipped, deep-dimpled smile. She sits up and begins pulling up the wildflowers in clumps. I can't see what she's doing with them, but the cat in my lap is purring and so I keep petting it and looking around.

Eventually, Santana shows me what she's made, and it's a garland. She laughs and leans towards me, and I oblige by ducking my head. It settles directly above my forehead and I brush at the silky petals, chuckling.

"I made it for you," Santana says, smiling.

"I like it," I tell her, and even though I really do, her smile slowly fades.

"It's not golden, though," Santana says quietly.

I look at her, confused. "It's very pretty," I hope that saying that will bring her smile back.

"It isn't good enough." Santana says in a dull voice.

The look in her eyes is so heartbreaking.

I remember that look from a real memory, and in my dream it's almost worse than it was in reality.

"I'm so sorry, Santana," I whisper. We aren't talking about garlands or crowns or flowers, and I think we both know that.

"I wish you didn't leave." Santana says quietly.

I woke up abruptly after that, with my heart aching so badly I could barely breathe. I held Santana's unicorn to my face and tried to stop myself from shaking, but it was a futile attempt. I didn't get any more sleep that night, too haunted by the image of Santana's quivery, broken face.

* * *

I've been avoiding Puckerman all day at school.

He has been trying to corner me, and I've gone out of my way to stay away from him.

I don't know what he wants, exactly, but I'm positive it can't be anything I'm interested in.

So far, I have successfully dodged him between my first, second, and third periods, so I have high hopes I might succeed in keeping away from him until the end of the day, since the last half of his classes take place on the opposite side of McKinley.

The last obstacle: lunch time.

The thing is, I would just skip it if I could. They're serving spaghetti today anyway, which looks more like something out of a slop bucket than actual food. It surprises me to see anyone eating it, because it smells like it came out of the boy's locker room.

I know that too many people would hound me if I didn't make some kind of appearance, though. Especially Brittany and Rachel, who (for whatever reason) watch me like a hawk everywhere I go. It was almost worth it, but then I remembered how bat shit crazy Rachel can be, and I am really not in the mood.

I'm being as inconspicuous as possible when I wedge myself between Tina and Mercedes. They look at me with surprise when I slide the chair out from between them, but they don't say anything.

I realize that this might not be the best idea for blending in, because between these two I stick out like a sore thumb, but by the time that crosses my mind I'm already sitting down and it would be even more obvious if I got up and shuffled next to Brittany and Sam, who at least have a chance of camouflaging me.

Puck is nowhere to be seen, so I start to relax enough to snag a roll off of Rachel's tray. She looks at me curiously, but I just shrug and rip the bread apart. "It isn't vegan, is it?" I ask.

Rachel shakes her head and closes her mouth, and goes back to looking at a pile of papers in front of her. I can't make out what they are upside down, but it wouldn't surprise me if they were some kind of sheet music for glee.

"You seem to be in a good mood, Quinn," Mercedes says tentatively from beside me. I glance at her, mildly surprised, and she gives me a cautious smile.

"I'm not in a bad mood," I reply evenly.

I'm getting sick of them treating me like some kind of invalid or mental patient. In some ways, I appreciate the way they have reacted, because if they had just carried on like Santana's accident was _nothing_ then I think I might have gone berserk. Still, there's only so much of this I can take.

Part of the reason why I'm not as close to any of them anymore is because they haven't made an effort to be close, at least not in any way I can connect to. The only ones with any hope of it are Mercedes and Brittany, and Mercedes always wants to talk about God and the healing power of prayer. Brittany wants to talk about snowflakes and sunbeams and Snickers.

Both of those subjects seem awfully confusing to me, so I try to avoid them at all costs.

I used to know where I stood with God. I used to be very sure of it, Him, and my place in my faith. So many things have muddied the waters about that lately that I frankly can't even begin to untangle my own opinions and emotions about Him.

I haven't spent a lot of time analyzing my relationship with Santana according to scripture and what it means for my eternal soul, but I know that at this point, I have a running tab with God for things I need forgiveness for. I honestly don't think the way I feel about her is one of them, though.

I haven't been to church since I came back to Lima. It worries my mother, and even though Mercedes and I go to different ones, I feel like she must know somehow. That could be my own guilt getting to me, however.

"That's very good news, Quinn." Rachel pipes up from across the table.

I guess I haven't been totally accurate in saying that no one has attempted to connect with me. Rachel has done a lot in the recent months to 'get through to me,' which is nice – Rachel _is_ nice, if she's anything – but annoying. I used to think Rachel had some eerie obsession with me and my life last year, before I got pregnant. It certainly seemed that way from where I was standing (which was on the highest, most self-righteous pedestal, I'll be the first to admit), but she was actually pretty cool to me after I got pregnant.

I just wish I knew how to be around her without wanting to strangle her.

I guess before Santana's accident, Rachel and I were kind of friends. Friends enough to go on double dates to the mall and Breadstix, anyway. But since Santana has been in a coma, part of her has rubbed off on me and how I feel about Rachel. Everything that seemed slightly quirky and a little endearing just irritates me, now. Even though I'm not harsh enough (anymore) to say them out loud, I hear Santana's snarky comments about Rachel's nose and her singing and her attitude in my mind whenever I look at her.

Maybe I'm just going crazy. It really wouldn't surprise me if that were the case.

I shrugged at my friends and ate the last piece of the roll I took from Rachel's tray.

I think she took it as some kind of an invitation to start talking to me, though, because she took the opportunity to start haranguing me about glee:

"You know we could _really_ use your particular dancing skill for nationals," Rachel says hopefully. I look anywhere but into her eyes, because I'm absolutely certain they'll be large and glassy and brimming with emotional enthusiasm. "I think you should reconsider your decision to take a furlough from any of our competitions."

When I don't say anything, she seems to hesitate, but only slightly. "Y-you wouldn't have to sing," Rachel's voice is nearly a whisper. "If you don't want to. Even though your voice is lovely."

I suppress a sigh, but I think she can tell I wanted to, anyway. When I finally glance in her direction, she's folding and unfolding her hands nervously, and making earnest eye contact. I want to roll my eyes, but I know that it would be cruel. I try not to be cruel as much as possible, so I just give her a thin smile.

"I really can't, Rachel." It's all I've been saying for the last three months.

Rachel looks crestfallen. I try to shrug off the immediate guilt that settles over me, but it's hard. I don't know why, but I feel downright despicable treating Rachel badly. It probably has to do with the fact that I used to harass her mercilessly (and that was back when I thought I was a good Christian, sheesh) with slushies, cyber bullying and name calling. Even though I realize now I was just misguided and full of empty superiority, and I have already apologized to her as much as I can bring myself to, I still feel a little remorseful sometimes.

"But I am coming to glee club today," I say on a sigh.

It brightens Rachel's face immediately, and I feel sort of awkward that she's looking at me like that right now.

"Where is Finn?" I ask suddenly. I want to remind Rachel that she has a _boyfriend._

It never crossed my mind before, but the way Rachel straightened her shoulders and seemed to lean towards Brittany makes me think that maybe there's something going on with them.

It's _hilarious,_ because Rachel is devoted to Finn in the most disgusting way, and Brittany – well, Brittany's _Brittany,_ but I can't shake the feeling.

"He's, um, with Puck." Rachel says, and she glances down at her sheet music again.

I raise an eyebrow and study her face, and then Brittany's.

Brittany is looking at Rachel from the corner of her eye, and her face is completely stoic. It's times like these that I really wish I could interpret Brittany better, because that expression could mean anything.

I don't really care.. it's certainly not my business if Rachel is cheating on Finn with Brittany.

But it would put some things in perspective for me.

It would give me a little bit of relief to know that Brittany isn't.. well, isn't just waiting around for Santana to wake up.

Brittany broke up with Artie after Santana came back to Lima. I don't know the details of it, but I know that it had to do with her.

I wonder how many people at this table know about Brittany and Santana?

I glance around at them, and they're all so absorbed in their own meals and conversations they barely notice. I study the side of Tina's face while she chats with Mike, and then let my eyes scan over Sam, who is sitting across from Tina, flanking Brittany. Then there's Mercedes to my right.

If Mercedes knew anything, she definitely would have said something by now. I think the same goes for Tina. And if Mike knew, Tina would know.

It makes me strangely uncomfortable to think about Brittany and Santana keeping their relationship a secret so well that absolutely no one knew about it except them.

It was common knowledge that they liked to make out and hook up at parties, but the fact that they were practically dating is still undisclosed to the majority of the other glee club members.

It makes me afraid that if – _when_ – Santana wakes up, she'll want a similar arrangement with me. Which isn't that bothersome, because I understand why she feels that way. People at McKinley certainly aren't forgiving to those who are different; I'm a prime example of that. I used to be the first person to zero in on a bit of weirdness and tear someone down over it. But it seems to have escalated to a point of insanity recently. Kurt transferred to another school because Dave Karofsky gave him death threats. The glee club lost another pivotal member in Kurt, and the hallways are slightly more tense whenever Karofsky stomps down them.

Not that Santana knows any of that, yet, but I can imagine she'll be even more thrilled about the idea of being out when she discovers it.

No, what bothers me about that idea is that they could just start up again right where they left off and no one would be the wiser. Not even me.

I don't want to be jealous of Brittany, I really don't. Brittany is my friend. She's been nothing but good to me since I met her. And frankly, if it weren't for her, I don't know if Santana and I would even be on speaking terms right now. I might have never gotten to know Santana without her.

It's so _hard,_ though. I see the way Santana is about Brittany. I feel like I'm nothing in comparison to her.

While I'm composing my covert examination of my friends, I catch the way Brittany's hand rubs along the small of Rachel's back. Rachel doesn't react except to lean into it, and it makes my eyebrows rise.

When did they get so comfortable with each other?

The lunch bell rings and I try to stand up and leave with them, but I'm so preoccupied with the thoughts circling my mind concerning Rachel and Brittany that I'm caught off-guard when Puck lands a palm on my shoulder.

"Hey, Fabray," He says.

I grimace, my whole body tensing. My initial reaction makes it clear I'm not too happy to see him, and Mercedes notices.

"Why don't you back off, Puck?" She says, coming up beside me.

It makes me look at her with slightly widened eyes.

"You got a problem?" Puck asks, his eyebrows scrunching up his forehead.

"Yeah, get your hands off my homegirl," Mercedes says, her tone challenging.

"Look, stand down, Aretha, I just want to talk to her." Puck says defensively, but his hand drops away.

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Mercedes links her arm through mine, and starts leading me away. "So get to stepping."

"Ugh," Puck makes a derisive noise in his throat and then he turns on his heel and walks away.

I give Mercedes what might be my first real smile in months. "Thanks,"

"Hey, no problem." Mercedes reacts to my smile with an even bigger one of her own. "I know he can be annoying. Boy has a one track mind."

I chuckle wryly. "Doesn't he have a girlfriend?"

Mercedes nods, and we walk with our arms entwined. "Lauren Zizes. But it wouldn't surprise me if he isn't entirely, uh, honest, with her." She slants me a look from the side of her eyes. "If you know what I mean."

I nod. "I certainly do." I give a shrug. "I really doubt that's what he wants with me, though."

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure, girl," Mercedes is teasing me and it feels kind of good, even if it makes me blush a little bit. "Aren't you interested in anyone, though?" Her voice sounds kind of serious now, and it makes everything inside of me tighten. "Not Puck. But somebody? Maybe Sam?" Mercedes gives me a sly smile. "I saw you looking at him at lunch earlier."

See? This is what I meant about Mercedes. Within five seconds of talking to me, she already told me she doesn't think Puck is faithful to Zizes, and she's trying to insinuate that I've got my eyes on Sam.

"I barely know Sam," I manage, and then I slowly drop my arm from hers. It makes me uncomfortable that we're even talking about this, when just a few minutes ago I was thinking about Santana.

"So get to know him." Mercedes bumps my hip with her own and gives me a sassy grin. "He's cute."

I laugh a little bit, and I can't help the way my face reddens. "Why don't _you_ get to know him?"

Mercedes' grin just widens. "Just ask him out. You deserve to have some fun."

I give a helpless shrug when we reach my locker. "Maybe I will."

Mercedes nods and then gives me an absent wave with her hand. She continues down the hallway towards her own locker.

I exhale once she's gone, since that conversation made me tense and anxious.

How did Santana and Brittany _deal_ with this before? I feel like my face is hot and everything inside of me is bouncing around. I can't even answer questions intelligently, because every other word in my head is _Santana_ and all I want to do is say, "I can't. I'm with Santana."

Of course, Santana and Brittany were seeing other people when they were together.. so maybe it was easier for them.

I'm halfway through picking out the textbooks I need for the rest of the day when Puck slides up and leans onto the locker next to mine. He's got a slightly wounded and frustrated expression on his face, and I roll my eyes exasperatedly at him. I prepare to walk away when he catches me around the arm.

"Hey," I say, slightly annoyed.

"Look, just chill, okay?" Puck rubs his hand through his mohawk with an aggrieved expression. "God, the way you avoid me makes me feel like you're Pac Man and I'm one of the ghosts or something."

"What do you want, Puck?" I know I sound irritated.

"Who crapped in your Wheaties?" Puck asks, throwing his own annoyance at me.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay. I'm having a party this weekend." He pauses. "I want you to come."

"No thanks." I reply immediately.

"Quinn, c'mon," Puck edges closer to me and drops his voice, like he's confiding in me. "I know things have been really hard for you since Santana got into her wreck. I get it, okay? She was like, your bestie or whatever." Puck looks around, almost as if he's afraid for anyone to see him being so sincere. "But I _knew _Santana, okay? In the Biblical sense."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"That's beside the point.. uhh." Puck glances at me nervously, and then seems to regain his train of thought. "I meant, I _knew_ Santana, and I know for a fact she wouldn't want you spending all of your life inside her hospital room, rotting away." He gives an exaggerated motion with his hands. "You're missing out, baby mama. You need to live a little."

I don't know why, but Puck's little speech put my teeth on edge. "First of all, Puck, Santana isn't dead, so stop talking about her in the past tense."

"All right. I know."

"And secondly, please don't refer to your history with her." I press my fingertips into the bridge of my nose, hoping to relieve some of the pressure building behind my eyes. "It makes me slightly nauseous."

"Okay, whatever you want – as long as you come this weekend." Puck says, his face wrinkled.

"I'll think about it." I say, with resignation.

"Not good enough." Puck presses closer to me, like the sheer force of his presence will compel me to accept.

"Why do you care?" I take a half-step backwards. I don't like Puck in my space.

"Because even though we haven't talked in forever, I still care about you. I notice how you don't do _anything_ but sit around in Santana's hospital room and mope. Your friends miss you. I miss you."

I sigh again, exasperated. "Maybe, Puck. That's the best you're going to get from me right now."

"All right." Puck's voice drops slightly. "I'll just keep bugging you 'til you say yes."

I roll my eyes and shut my locker, and Puck finally lumbers away.

* * *

I went to a party when I first started going to glee club meetings again, because Brittany had almost the same talk with me that Puck just did, and I feel much more obligated to Brittany than I do Puck.

I haven't let myself think about it really in depth since then, because even I don't know how to feel about what happened there.

It was still cold back then. Mercedes had it at her house, which meant that it was slightly more contained than a party at Puck's house would be. The kids were respectful of Mercedes' family's belongings, and the music didn't go up beyond a certain decibel.

I didn't feel right being there. My mind was back at Lima General, with Santana. I could see her everywhere – dancing in the shadows, laughing around a corner. I missed her so much that if I stopped to think about it for a moment, my eyes would water. It hurt just to think about having fun while she was hooked up to machines that pumped life in and out of her.

I didn't drink, though I was sorely tempted to get completely wasted. I knew it probably wouldn't end well for anyone if that happened, because I would probably start crying sloppily on someone's shoulder. Or worse, I'd go into some kind of rage. None of my friends needed to have to deal with that from me when they were trying to have a good time.

Eventually, I got tired of walking around and pretending to have conversations with them. It was hot and stuffy in the house, because the heat was on and everyone was dancing. My throat was dry and my nose felt sore. So I stepped outside onto Mercedes' back stoop. The concrete was so cold that I could feel it even through my jeans, and the wind was icy, but at least I could take a breath.

A few moments later, the screen door swung open and then closed again. I started, and turned to see who had followed me. Brittany settled beside me with a muffled _whumph, _and I reached out to catch her around the elbow to make sure she didn't topple the rest of the way down onto the ground below.

"Hey there." I said, smiling slightly.

"Hi," Brittany said. Her voice was too bright and her eyes were too glassy. I realized Brittany was drunk. Plus she smelled like a liquor store.

"Are you having fun?" I asked. I was still very awkward around Brittany back then. I didn't know how to behave with her.

Brittany just nodded, and crossed her arms over her knees. She looked into Mercedes's backyard. It stretched out for about half an acre, and the back half was completely obscured in darkness. The lights from the house cast dim shadows on the yellowed grass, and the music from the party inside was quiet and muffled.

"I miss Santana." Brittany said suddenly.

I froze, but then I nodded. I let out a slow breath. "Yeah, I do, too."

Brittany turned to look at me with a peculiar face. I couldn't read her expression, and it just set me more on edge.

It stayed quiet between us for a few more minutes. I knew Brittany wanted to talk to me. I was afraid of whatever conversation she wanted to have, though.

It surprised me when she turned towards me and gripped me by the shoulder, though. I turned, slightly startled, and then without any kind of warning, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine.

I was stunned. Brittany rubbed her mouth on mine and then pushed her tongue between my lips, and I could taste the alcohol on her more than anything.

It was an awful kiss, truthfully. I didn't respond, and after a minute, Brittany pulled away.

My blood was roaring in my ears and my heart thudded erratically in my chest, mostly from shock, I think. I stared at her with my mouth slightly open and had no idea what to say.

Then, unexpectedly, Brittany burst into tears.

I stared in complete confusion as she launched herself upwards and stumbled back into the house.

I didn't know what to do with that, so I did nothing.

I went home and didn't even say goodbye to anyone. I walked through the back gate and out to my car, my shoes crushing the ice crystals that formed on the blades of grass. I left my coat inside, but I didn't care. I just got in my car and left.

* * *

Since then, Brittany and I have talked a little bit about Santana. She never came out and said it, but I think she was kissing me that night because she thought it would be like kissing Santana. I understand why she did it, even though I don't think it was the right thing.

I have _that_ fun little fact to explain to Santana when she wakes up.

So I'm wary of going to a party. If Brittany gets drunk again, who knows what could happen?

I'm still thinking about it in glee club. I kept my word to Rachel and showed up, even though I didn't want to give Puck the opportunity to hound me again. Mr. Schue didn't give anyone a chance to talk to me much, though. He had them immediately start dance rehearsals. I sat it out, even though he had told me I could join in _just in case._ No, I know there would be no way I would be with them at nationals. It's only about six weeks away.

I notice more how they look from the outside, now that I'm not dancing with them anymore. I see the way Mr. Schue highlights Rachel in almost any performance. I can tell that Tina gets annoyed by it, even though she never says anything and sings with a huge smile on her face. I've noticed the way that Mike dances with the fluid grace of a ballerina, and Brittany's style is more hip-hop. They're both flawless. I feel true admiration for them and their ability, but also a pang of envy, because I have always considered myself a pretty top-rate dancer. I think beside them I must look like an uncoordinated toddler.

When the meeting is over, the kids are buzzing with excitement and the adrenaline from exercise. I do miss that part of it. I haven't been keeping in shape lately, without glee or Cheerios. I notice the way my body is softer than it was before. I used to run track at Atherton, but here, I spend a lot more time stationary, or sleeping.

I try to slip out the door, but Puck catches up with me before I can fully get away.

"So? What's the verdict?"

I roll my eyes. "Puck, I don't know."

"You really should come." Brittany appears beside him, slightly out of breath.

I glance at her uneasily.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

"Yes, Quinn. I'm going. It will be good bonding for us." Rachel says with a wide smile.

"I don't know, guys." I shift my weight back and forth on my feet. My phone buzzes again.

"We want you to come," Tina offers on her way out. Mike glances back at me. "It'll be fun."

I shrug. I feel like pressured into saying yes since all of them are ganging up on me now.

"Please say yes." Rachel says again.

I look at her uncertainly, and then dig my phone out of my pocket after it buzzes for a third time. I can't imagine who would be texting me, since practically everyone I ever text is in this room or just left it.

I glance down at the screen and then my heart drops.

I can't believe the name flashing across it.

All the air in the room disappears. I can't breathe.

"Quinn?" Rachel's voice is concerned now.

I'm lightheaded and my hands are shaking.

"What's wrong?"

I shake my head. "Santana."

Rachel gasps, and I glance up to see her staring down at my phone in horror. "Oh, no. Oh, Quinn," She says with severe emotion.

Brittany's face is rigid and staring at me with alarm.

"I'm so sorry," Rachel breathes.

Puck looks frozen and dumbfounded. He's staring between me and Quinn and sharing confused looks with Brittany.

"What?" I can't think. My hands are trembling so much I'm afraid I'm going to drop my phone. My legs are shaky and weak.

"At least she isn't suffering anymore." Rachel says mournfully.

Now I'm staring at Rachel.

"She isn't _dead,_" I say finally. "She's awake."

All three of them are stunned and speechless.

Santana's awake.

* * *

**A/N**: Hey guys! Thanks for hanging in there. I know this one is short, but my next one will be long to make up for it. I hope you all review and let me know what you think!

Also, to join the discussion on this and my other fics, you can follow me on tumblr: **missmandamargo** . **tumblr** . **com**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

I feel like I'm in some kind of vortex.

For a moment, everything was spinning around me in abrupt chaos. Everyone started talking at once, tripping over each other, shouting. There was a panic of motion that had no rhyme or reason. I stayed still, too stunned by the realization of the truth to do anything much more complicated than breathe.

I saw Brittany's eyes meeting mine from a few feet away and she seemed tranquil, caught in her own stillness. We were both the only solid things, because everyone else was whirling and whirring around us.

It took a moment of solid eye contact to snap me out of my immobility. I blinked, shifted to look at Rachel and Puck – and Mr. Schue behind them, and Mercedes – and then just turned on my heel and left the choir rom.

I could hear the thundering of voices behind me, the cacophony of confusion that seemed to hover around the other kids like a dank cloud. It disappeared as soon as the door clicked shut, and I somehow managed to flit from the inside of the building into my car in a kind of blur.

I'm strangely calm. I think it's because, instinctively, I know that driving while distracted just lands you in the hospital hooked up to tubes for the better part of three months. Other than that, though, it feels like the world is jarring past me, and I'm the only thing making sense. It's kind of unnerving, because the traffic passes me by and I'm not even fully aware of where I'm going or how I'm doing it, except that my body moves on automatic. It seems surreal, but I'm pulling up the parking garage of the hospital before my mind has caught up with me. Part of it is still back inside McKinley, staring at the screen of my phone blinking Santana's name.

I have to take one elevator up three floors and then trade off for another to get to the fourth, and by then the shakes are back. My heart is pounding inside my ribcage and my pulse is roaring in my ears. My fingertips tingle and everything seems slightly unsteady. I can't feel my legs as they carry me towards Santana's closed hospital room door.

I suck in a deep breath, trying to do something to calm my nerves. But there is literally no hope of that, because I feel like one huge ball of nerves right now. I try to ignore the way my fingers tremble as I push down the stainless steel handle. The door clicks open effortlessly, and then I take a step inside.

I hear her before I see her. I can't make out the exact words, but the tone makes my heart strangle in my chest and a lump rise in my throat.

It must be the initial reaction to knowing that she's actually awake, she's actually _here, _because there's nothing really touching or endearing about it. It's Santana's patented bitchy, condescending tone and I can tell she's about five seconds away from blowing up on whoever else is in the room with her.

It sets my jaw on edge, but damn, it's good to hear her.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. This is some sick joke."

I push past the curtain that separates the door from the hospital bed, and I feel like I slam into a brick wall.

Santana is sitting up in her bed, popped up by pillows. She still has tubes hooked to her hands and one going into her nose, but her hair is brushed and clean and color returned to her skin. It's sallow and pale, but with the familiar hint of cinnamon beneath the flesh. Her dark eyes flash, once towards me and then back towards Jackie, who is bent over a stainless steel tray.

"Q, thank Jesus you're here. Please get this crazy lady away from me." Santana's eyebrows are knit above her eyes, and she glares her irritation at a frazzled-looking Jackie.

"Quinn, you never told me your friend is so.. ah. Charming."

"Oh yeah? Did anyone ever tell _you_ that you're off your damn rocker? No frickin' way is somebody named _Nurse Jackie_ sticking me with anything!" Santana throws up her hands and then turns her head back to me. "Seriously, Q? You let this chick medicate me this whole time? I'm surprised she didn't go all Angel of Death on me."

I have no idea what's happening to my body. It's shaking, and inside my chest is a thick, wet bubble that's something between a sob and a laugh. My eyes are watering uncontrollably, but I'm smiling, and there's a hysterical mesh of emotions bouncing around so haphazardly that I can't even begin to catch ahold of one.

"Santana," I say, half-chuckling, half-sniffling, "Why do you have to be so damn _rude_ all the time?"

"Hey, you have to be nice to me," Santana says, her eyes widening fractionally in disbelief. She raises both of her hands, palm out. "I'm sick."

"No, you idiot," I think I'm crying all the way now. I can't make sense of what's going on. My face is wet and everything is blurry. "You don't think that a more appropriate greeting after three months of being in a coma is 'Hey, how are you?'"

Now I sort of think I'm laughing. "Or anything, really, other than 'where the fuck are you? Come get me.'"

Santana shrugs. "I thought it was appropriate. I wants the hell out of this place."

"Not yet." Jackie interjects.

"Stay out of this, Dr. Kevorkian," Santana's eyes are still on me, though, and her face is softening. "Q, don't cry."

I use the back of my hands to wipe at my face. "You're such a—"

"I know. I'm dumb. I piss you off." Santana makes impatient circular gestures with her hands, "I get it. Okay? Come here."

My knees are weak and my legs are wobbly, but I somehow manage to cross the space in Santana's hospital room to stand next to her in bed. She smiles at me when I come close, and it makes my heart lurch painfully behind my ribs. I use my fingertips to trace first the dimple winking on her cheek, and then the soft curve of her bottom lip.

My eyes start gushing tears again and Santana's face startles, and her eyebrows knit together. "No, stop it," She tangles her fingers in mine, and then pulls me close to her. Without really knowing what I'm doing, I'm climbing into the rickety, narrow bed with her and as soon as my arms snake around her abdomen, she smooths a hand down my hair – the one not hooked up to IVs – and I just completely lose it. It has to do with the sound of her heart beating in my ears (so much faster and more _alive_ now than it was yesterday) or the way her breaths are more vibrant and meaningful. It could just be that for the first time since the accident, she smells more like herself. I don't know what could possibly affect that except for improved circulation, but it has me sobbing brokenly into her neck and clutching at her tightly.

"You're trying to kill me, here," Santana says, and it makes me cry harder. "I was just kidding!" Santana jerks her head towards Jackie. "I think she needs a sedative."

"God, shut up, Santana," I say thickly.

"I'm just trying to help." Santana's tone is slightly defensive. She keeps running her hand down my hair.

"You oughta quit while you're ahead." That's Jackie.

"Are you still here?" Santana asks derisively. "Go away."

Jackie grumbles, but I can hear the soft squeak of her rubber-sole shoes on the linoleum. The door opens and then clicks shut again.

"Quinn." Santana says after a moment. I'm not crying anymore, but I still have my face pressed against her. My own tears are making her skin damp and uncomfortable against mine, but I don't care. "Your hair is getting long."

I manage a watery laugh. I lift my head and give her a bleary smile, and she uses the back of her fingers to wipe at the mess on my cheeks. "I haven't cut it."

"It's good." Santana says with a small, crooked smile. "I like it."

A moment later there is a soft knock on the door. I felt Santana freeze beside me, and the look on her face is tense. I bite back a sigh and shift so that we aren't as close together, and by the time the door clicks open and then shut again I had my feet off the bed. She reaches up at the last moment and grabs my hand, preventing me from walking away, so I stood, cupping one of my elbows while Santana held my fingers in her grasp.

I glance at her face and can see that her eyebrows are knit slightly in anxiety. I wonder what she has to be anxious about - but then I remember, and it makes my chest go cold.

The first face to poke around the curtain is Rachel's, and I have to hide my smirk at the way I can feel Santana's hand twitch around mine. She doesn't have enough time to fully sneer, though, because Brittany follows Rachel and then Puck draws up behind them.

"Santana," Rachel's enthusiasm is low-key, even for her, and it surprises me. The smile on her face is a mile wide, though.

"Short stack," Santana replies evenly.

I use my wrist to nudge her shoulder and throw her a slanted look. _Be nice_.

Santana rolls her eyes.

Gradually, the three of them creep in to edge around Santana's bed. Brittany flanks her on the opposite side of me, and Santana gives her a smile that makes my heart twist and flip. Brittany's face is hard to read. It's slightly reserved and kind of hesitant, but the corners of her mouth lift upwards when her eyes meet Santana's.

Puck clears his throat and it jolts Santana. She turns to glare at him with a slightly quizzical expression. "I always told you women shouldn't be allowed to drive. Look where it got you!"

Rachel scoffs and elbows Puck in the ribs. "Don't be crass, Noah."

Santana's eyes dart between Puck and Rachel and then a look of puzzled horror breaks out over her face. "Oh my god, please tell me you aren't screwing Berry."

"What?" Rachel immediately looks alarmed, and she jerks away from Puck.

"Why?" Puck grins. "You want some of this? There's enough to share."

Santana's nose wrinkles up. "Ugh, no."

"Rachel's still dating Finn," I supply helpfully.

"Disgusting." Santana snorts. "Where is the Jolly Green Giant?"

Rachel crosses her arms and glances away. "He's out in the waiting room. They only let three of us in at a time."

Santana's face softens and then wrinkles again. "Who else is out there?"

"Mercedes, Artie.." Brittany murmurs. "Mike and Tina."

"Mr. Schuester." Rachel says. "I heard Kurt is coming, too."

Santana groans.

"How do you feel?" Brittany asks, drawing Santana's attention back to her. Her eyes are worried, and it makes Santana reach out and squeeze her hand.

"Fine." Santana shrugs. "Like I took a nap."

"Longest nap ever," Brittany smiles.

"And I'm pissed," Santana says, looking back to the room. "Everyone told me I missed Christmas. This is not okay. I wants my presents."

Everyone sort of chuckles, but I'm watching the way Rachel's face is slightly worried. She keeps glancing between Santana and Brittany and her expression is hesitant. I swallow, and for once I feel like maybe me and Rachel are on the same page.

It could be that I'm imagining things – but no, Rachel is definitely a bit concerned by the way Brittany won't take her eyes off Santana.

It gets a little bit awkward after that, and Santana glances around at everyone nervously. "Okay, guys, chill. I feel like a zoo exhibit or something."

Puck uses his palm to rub the back of his head. "It's good to see you awake and not, like, brain damaged."

"Noah!" Rachel chastises.

Santana rolls her eyes. "It's nice to see you too, Puckerman."

"I'll go let somebody else in," Puck says. He glances at Rachel, who raises her eyebrows and then turns back to Santana.

"I'm very glad that you're doing so well, Santana." Rachel says with a small smile.

Santana nods, and I can see her chewing on her lips.

Rachel looks like she's waiting for some kind of response, but when it's clear Santana won't give one, she follows behind Puck and out into the hallway. I catch a glimpse of her looking back at Brittany, but Brittany isn't even watching her go.

"Good use of restraint, there," I comment once they've left the room.

Santana smiles slightly. "I thought so."

Brittany brushes a hand over Santana's forehead, swiping back a stray lock of hair.

I bite my lip and tug my hand out of Santana's. She gives me a curious look, but I wander over to sit down in one of the chairs beneath the window.

The door swings open again and then Mike and Tina enter.

"This is gonna be a long night," Santana says under her breath.

* * *

It takes hours, but eventually all of our friends have come to see Santana. A few people I didn't expect to showed up, like some of the girls on the Cheerios squad. I didn't think Santana was friends with many of them, but she smiled more brightly at them than she did at Finn or Kurt.

It's well past ten o'clock by the time the last visitor filters out, and it left just me, Santana and Brittany in the room.

I wonder if Brittany's knees are stiff from standing for so long. She hasn't moved from Santana's side since she came in all those hours before. My backside is getting sore because these chairs aren't very comfortable.

"Where are your parents?" I ask finally. My mind is buzzing with questions, but more, I'm aching with the need to be close to Santana. But there's Brittany between us. Before Atherton, before everything, Brittany was like a bridge between Santana and I, making us friends when we might have been enemies. But now I feel like she's a barrier, and it sort of hurts.

"My mom came in right after I woke up.." Santana says idly. She looks tired. She runs a hand through her hair and I can see that it's a motion she's repeated several times in the past hour, from the way her hair slicks back. "My dad checked in just before you got here, and he said he'd come back when his shift was over. Pretty soon."

Brittany lifts her thumb to her lip and chews on the cuticle.

"Your mom isn't here now?" I say curiously. I don't claim to know a lot about Santana or her family, but I'm sure if I had been in a coma for an entire season, my mother wouldn't have left my side until she passed out from sheer exhaustion.

"Uhh.." Santana shrugs. "I made her leave. She was driving me loco."

"When can you get out of here?" Brittany asks.

Santana shrugs again and leans her head back against the pillow. Her face sags and looks ashen in the dim yellow light. Her eyes are sunken and the area beneath them is purple and wrinkly. I have the strongest urge to climb into bed with her and hold her until she falls asleep.

"Not until you're better," I say quietly. Santana cracks an eye open and smiles at me, a tiny, warm smile that spreads warmth through my body.

Just then, Santana's dad walks into the room.

He's a tall, severe man with dark hair. I didn't have a lot of contact with him before Santana's accident, but I remember his hair had less silver in it and his forehead was less lined. When he smiles, his cheeks flash the same dimples that Santana has, and he looks at her with her same almond-shaped eyes.

Brittany looks at him with an openly guilty expression, but he ignores her and walks over to Santana's bedside. "How are you feeling?"

Santana gives a half-shrug. "_Estoy bien_."

"Need any pain medication?"

"Yes." Santana replies immediately.

Doctor Lopez's eyes narrow, but only for a moment, before he shrugs and nods. He turns towards the door and then pauses, looking over his shoulder into the room. His eyes rake over me and then Brittany, and his face hardens. "Visiting hours are over."

"Papa." Santana's voice is hushed.

"It's time to go home, Brittany," He says sternly.

"Okay." Brittany whispers.

I glance between Santana and her dad, and then Brittany. Her face is stoic, but I can tell – for once – that she's affected by him. Her fists are clenched at her sides and I can see that the knuckles are white.

Doctor Lopez leaves and the door _whishes_ shut. Brittany reaches over to squeeze Santana's hand, and Santana squeezes back.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Brittany promises.

"All right, Britt." Santana's voice is quiet and slightly contrite. I can tell she wants to apologize for her dad, but Brittany only shrugs and then steps away.

"Are you coming?" Brittany asks when she faces me.

I glance at Santana uneasily.

"Give us a minute, Britt." Santana says. There's a strange, almost commanding quality to her voice, and I haven't ever heard her use that tone with Brittany before.

Brittany doesn't say anything, but I try not to wince as she drifts out. I don't want her to be mad, or for feelings to get hurt. I can't tell if they are, but I imagine so. I know if Santana talked to me like that right now, I would probably be a little upset.

It's a bit different for Brittany and me, though, because I'm used to Santana's scathing, biting words. Sometimes I think it's a game between us. She never speaks that way to Brittany, however, and I don't know if Brittany is equipped to handle it.

"Come here, Q," Santana's voice is soft and I can hear the strain in it. She looks more tired than I've ever seen her, and I've seen her in various states of exhaustion – when we've both been so drained from Cheerios practice that our muscles quiver and shake, when we've preformed nonstop for competition after competition, all-night sessions with the glee club that left us sore and sleep deprived.

Santana shifts in the small, rickety bed and I almost slide in beside her, but then her dad comes back with a small syringe in his hand.

"Jackie said you refused medication earlier," His voice is low and slightly scolding. He gestures to her impatiently, and she rolls on her side, facing away from us. I raise my eyebrows and look away, because it's a hospital gown that doesn't have a back to it. Her father is quick and precise and doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed to be jabbing the needle into the meat at the base of Santana's spine.

"That woman looks like she belongs in a circus," Santana mutters.

"You need to behave yourself, _mija_," Doctor Lopez says.

"Let me go home," Santana shifts onto her back.

"A few days."

Santana sighs. "Have you talked to Mama-?"

"No," He replies immediately, and his whole face darkens. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Bye," Santana doesn't watch him go. Once the door shuts, I crawl beneath the thin hospital sheet, and Santana sighs again, but the sound is full of contentment. Her body sags, and I realize how thin her arms are when I slide mine around her.

"You didn't need any pain medication," I say quietly into her hair.

Santana smirks. "No, but I deserve it,"

I frown at her and she just chuckles quietly. "You didn't have to go through all that."

"It wasn't so bad," I say. It's strange, but I feel like I was the one injected with some kind of drug. My limbs feel heavy and my eyelids are drooping.

"Everybody acting like I rose from the grave." Santana's words are slurred, and I realize she's fading fast. I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her temple.

"You did."

Santana shakes her head. "Missed you."

"You need a shower." I tell her.

Santana's eyes are closed, but I see the grin on her face. It makes me grin back.

"With you?" She asks slyly.

"If you want." I kiss her cheekbone, now.

"Mmm. I like you being nice to me." Santana murmurs.

"Don't get used to it." I smile while I say it, though. "Just until you're better. Then I'm going to kick your ass."

"Bring it, blondie,"

At least I think that's what she says. The next thing I hear is her breath whistling quietly through her nose. I take a moment to look at her, now that she's actually _sleeping_ and not just almost-dead. It scares me how much alike they both are. It makes my heart kick in my chest, and I hold my breath, tucking my lips in my mouth.

I use a finger to poke Santana gently in the ribs, and her face scrunches up. I let out the breath I was holding. It's a relief to get some reaction out of her.

I'm almost afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid that any moment now Jackie will nudge me and I'll startle awake, and Santana will be just as unresponsive as she has been the last four months.

I can't help it, though. I fall asleep holding Santana close to me, and she's warm, just like I remember her being before, when we slept in a bed that wasn't in a hospital.

* * *

"I can't believe they let you go home already." I really can't. It's been less than two days.

"I can be very persuasive." Santana says. She traded out a hospital bed for her own, but she looks much better here. It's been a long time since I've been in Santana's room, but it doesn't look anything like I remember it.

"Danika's been in here," Santana says, as if she can read my mind. I nod, wandering over to the dresser. I pick up a paperweight and then put it back down. I feel restless and I don't know why.

"I think you should have stayed another few days," I say finally. I realize that's why I'm so uneasy – because it doesn't feel right, that Santana is already out of the hospital. "You can't even _walk._"

"Hey, I can walk." Santana mutters, her eyebrows crinkling.

"No, you can't." I scowl at her. "And don't try."

"You need to quit hovering, Grandma," Santana retorts, crossing her arms.

We're interrupted by the door opening. Both of us turn and Santana smiles at the busty blonde woman who enters.

"Oh, Santana," She has thick red lipstick on and her hair is in a bun. I'm a little taken aback by the maid uniform she wears – seriously? People still wear that? – and I notice immediately her accent.

"Hey," Santana says with a self-effacing smile.

It's fascinating to see her smiling shyly at this older woman, who bustles around and makes cooing noises. I can only understand every other word out of her mouth, but she starts getting misty eyed and making weepy noises after a moment.

Santana's cheeks darken and it's utterly adorable.

"Stop the waterworks," Santana says. I can't believe she's being so passive and _kind_ to this lady. She was brusque and cold to her own mother, and only slightly more receptive around her dad. It's a side of Santana I've never seen before.

Finally, Danika pulls a lace hanky out of one of her many pockets and she dabs at the corners of her eyes – which are plastered with thick, black mascara – and, sniffling, she leaves the room. I stare after her, jaw slightly agape.

"What ethnicity is she?" I ask, slightly awed.

Santana just shrugs, picking at her bedspread. "I don't know, white."

"No, I mean.. where is she from?"

Santana's eyebrows crease. "She's Swedish or German or Icelandic. I don't know, all you white people look the same to me."

I roll my eyes at her.

"I'm so tired of everybody crying over me." Santana's face is stormy, like she's on the edge of some kind of rant. I sit down carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Santana, everyone thought.." I trail off, and look down at my lap. "I mean, you were just gone for four months. We're happy you're okay."

"Yeah." Santana scratches awkwardly at her neck. "But I feel like Rip Van Winkle or something. The last thing I remember is saying goodbye to you in the snow at Atherton. Next thing, I'm waking up in a hospital and not only did I miss Christmas but also Spring Break and everything is different but for me, I just remember.. the snow. And you."

Santana's voice trails off, and when I look up at her, her eyes are soft and a little faraway. She picks at the skin around her thumbnail and takes a deep breath. "You didn't stay."

"No." I let out a loose, breathy laugh. "You think I would?"

Santana stares at her hands and pauses a beat before she says, "It took me almost dying for you to come back here."

Her words cut into me like a knife. "Santana."

I hear her suck in a sharp breath, but she's shaking her head. "No, I know. It was a long time ago for you. You're probably past it. But for me, it was literally the day before yesterday."

I swallow and watch her face, even though she isn't looking at me. It's always hard for me to see her like this, like she's fighting some internal struggle or warring with her own emotions. I know that Santana lives a daily battle with herself, and that's hard enough, but it's worse when I realize that it's over me, or something that I've said or done.

"I'm sorry." It's all I really have to offer.

"It's okay." Santana whispers. She glances at me from under her eyelashes and her eyes are like liquid dark chocolate. "I'm glad you're here now."

"Yeah." I try to smile, but I feel my face spasm and I know that something inside me wants to cry. "Just, don't go driving into ditches to get my attention anymore, okay?"

Santana laughs a short, almost startled laugh, and gives a nod. "Sure thing."

I know that we have a lot to talk about. It hangs heavy between us and the silence is potent and tense. But I can tell that this isn't the time. Santana continues picking at her cuticle and she looks so small and fragile beneath her thick black comforter that I just want to smooth my hands over her face until all her worries melt away.

I take a deep breath and attempt another smile. "How about that shower?"

Santana looks up at me and I can see her dimples again. "I'd like that."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Santana is too skinny.

That's really all I can think about, as I help her undress. She's always been smaller than me, shorter and more compact, though we're nearly of a height with one another. I never really noticed the difference in our sizes, however. We always fit together neatly, and it was something that I appreciated before. Now she just seems thin and sickly, and I'm afraid to touch her too roughly or move her too quickly. I can see the way her bones poke against her skin, which has faded from its natural russet shade to one more like the color of milk with a drop of chocolate syrup in it. Santana sits uneasily on the lid of the toilet while I patiently remove her sweater.

"I remember when you had tan lines," I'm trying not let it show how uncomfortable it makes me to see her like this.

Santana smiles, but the look in her eyes is slightly reserved. "Even in the winter, I can get a tan."

"I was always envious of that." I smooth a hand down Santana's hair, which lies limply against her head. "I just burn."

Her smile is more genuine this time, and she glances up to catch my eye. "You just don't got it like me, Q,"

I laugh, loosely, and then shift to stand in front of her. I gesture and she climbs slowly to her feet, and I don't miss the way her knees buckle beneath her scant weight. I steady her by holding onto her elbows, and then with one hand I pull down the natty cotton pajama bottoms she wore home from the hospital.

Santana's face is scrunched up when I glance back up at her, and part of me is afraid that she might be embarrassed about being so weak. "Four months of funk I need to wash off. I doubt the water will be hot enough."

It wasn't what I was expecting, so I just laugh. "They gave you sponge baths while you were out."

Santana scoffs, and rolls her eyes. "Please don't remind me. That's completely demoralizing to think about."

I bite my lip, but before I can think of anything to say, Santana's face twists up into an irritated expression. "I feel like somebody tricked me. I was fine a few days ago. Now I'm like an octogenarian and can barely stand up."

"You'll get better." I don't know why, but what she said relieves me. It's an easier subject to talk about than strangers bathing her, or how they had to shift her body so she wouldn't get bedsores, or how she was asleep so long that she didn't even see the bruises that littered her body from shoulder to hip. They're vanished, now, swallowed up by all the time that Santana missed, and will never have back. "Does your head hurt at all?"

Santana shakes her head, and I help her over the lip of the tub. I watch her chew on her lip, and she's staring down at her own knees, which are trembling. "I don't know if I can stand up long enough to shower."

I can tell she didn't want to admit that, but just as easily, I can tell that it's true. Her body is shivering, and it's not from the cold. Gradually the shakes increase, and now she's quivering like a leaf. I hold onto her forearms, and she looks at me with a desperate expression.

"Okay. No big deal." I sound a lot more confident than I feel. "Just sit down. We'll take a bath."

"I'd – I'd rather not. With you." Santana's eyebrows wrinkle up. "I'll just wash myself. Okay?"

"Okay." I don't know what made her change her mind, but her face immediately relaxes when I agree. "Sit down."

Santana lowers herself unsteadily, but I keep my hands on her all the same. All I can see in my mind's eye is her slipping and smacking her head on the cold ceramic. She sits with her knees against her chest and she looks so slight against the harsh white tub. I sigh and turn the nozzles, and the sudden rush of water thunders and echoes. I watch as Santana's skin prickles with goosebumps, and – I know it's strange – but I notice that her nails are a pale gray, almost bluish color.

"Are your iron levels okay?"

"What?" I can tell, by her expression, that Santana isn't following my train of thought.

"You just look really pale," I say, after examining her lips and nails again. The bathtub is filling up with water, and Santana seems to relax slowly. I try not to worry.

"Stop worrying," Her tone is sarcastic and dry, but she doesn't meet my gaze. She watches the water rush out of the spigot. "Wash my hair?"

I actually can't tell if it's a request or a demand, because she seems lost in thought now. Her arms loop loosely around her knees, and the water reaches just above her waist. I can see her forefinger picking at the loose skin of her cuticle beneath the water, and I have to suppress the urge to scold her.

_I'm not her damn mother_.

All of the sudden, I'm kind of irritated and I don't particularly know why. Something about the way I reach for her shampoo makes her glance at me, and I can tell by the way she watches me that she knows, somehow.

I use my palms to wet her hair – which is thinner now than it was before – and the whole time, Santana's eyes are pinned on me. Just knowing that she looks at me makes it easier for me to remain calm.

I fill my palm with the shampoo from the bottle, and the heavy, herbal scent fills the bathroom. I use my other hand and turn the faucet off, because the water ripples and laps against the edge of the tub now. Santana is still watching me, with her head slightly tipped, and her eyes narrowed fractionally. She looks at me like I'm some mystery she has to solve, or else like I annoy her.

It's probably a little bit of both, to be honest.

I massage the shampoo into her hair, slicking my palms up and down the length of it, and I don't react to how I pull away fistfuls of loose strands. Santana doesn't seem to notice, either, even when I gather them into a wet wad and throw them into the trash bin. Instead, she leans slightly into my fingers when I wash her scalp, and something about it makes my shoulders relax. Maybe because Santana is so quiet, but looking at me with those dark, heavy eyes. Maybe because her face is both soft and pinched at once, and, looking down, I can see the hollow of her collarbones so much that I can't help but be gentle and tender.

I try to use my hands to rinse her hair. Instead, Santana ends up with a mouthful of suds. She sputters and chokes, and I use the back of my hand to wipe her hair away from her eyes. "Maybe try leaning back," I suggest, keeping a straight face.

"Maybe," Santana agrees dryly. She slides along the length of the tub and then sinks into the water line, and I smile at the sight of it. Even though I can count her ribs and divot of her pelvis, she is still remarkably beautiful. She catches my smile and the corners of her mouth tug upwards, reflecting it back at me.

"Is it kinky that this reminds me of my nanny?" Santana's smile broadens into a wicked grin.

My eyes widen and my cheeks immediately flush, and Santana chuckles. "Stop being an ass,"

"No, really," Santana's tone is musing now, and she just continues to smirk into my eyes while I rub the soap out of her hair. "She used to give me baths all the time. She was blonde and pretty, like you,"

I snort, then pull at Santana's shoulder, helping her into a sitting position. The water whooshes and sloshes against the tub, sliding off of her in thin rivulets. Her skin is warmer, now, flushed, and glossy from the suds.

"That's probably where it all began," Santana says wryly. "Inappropriate bath time with Viola. Why couldn't I have had Nanny McPhee? I probably would have turned out normal,"

It shocks me, sometimes, to hear Santana say things like that, especially so offhandedly. It makes everything inside me go cold and then hot, and I frankly don't know how to react. Santana's relationship with her own sexuality is confusing, at best, and I can't make heads or tails out of half the things she says. For instance, she spent the whole semester at Atherton making catty jokes and ripping the buttons off my shirt while trying to undress me, but she goes absolutely berserk at any mention of the word _lesbian_.

"You _are_ normal," I figure it's the safest response. Usually, I'd probably be open to trying to goad her into having a conversation about it, but right now things feel way too strained.

Santana shrugs and I slather her hair in conditioner, and the room goes quiet again for a moment. "Wait, what do you mean, inappropriate?" It kind of bothers me, that she used that word. Santana is hard to interpret, and I don't know if she was trying to drop some kind of hint about something. "What was inappropriate about her giving you a bath?"

"Oh, Christ, Q," Santana's voice is dripping derision. "Nothing. Just forget it."

"Hey!" Santana jerks her head away from me, and her expression is absolutely waspish. "That hurt."

"Sorry," I'm definitely not.

"You will be," Santana mutters.

I just raise an eyebrow at her. "Lean back again."

"I got it from here, Q," Santana bats away the hand pushing against her shoulder. "Go away."

"Fine," I stand up abruptly and march towards the door. I pause, a second before pushing past it, and I'm caught between my concern for her and the way irritation fills up my chest, making me want to hit something. "Just, don't drown."

"Yeah." I can't see her anymore, but I hear the water sloshing around in the tub. I take the last few steps out of the bathroom and just before I shut the door behind me, I can hear her mutter something that sounds suspiciously along the lines of, "_Psycho,"_

I repress the urge to slam it and just bite my lip. I feel anger and annoyance and worry flare up inside of me, like a hot spark. I don't know what I'm even feeling anymore. It's just a warm ball flitting and struggling around inside of me, and I can't decide if I want to cry or scream.

Instead, I just laugh. I realize it's a feeling I've missed more than anything over these last four months – the feeling Santana gives me almost continuously.

Santana Lopez, you drive me absolutely crazy, and I completely love you.

* * *

As glad as I am to have Santana back, there are a few things about it that I've found less than appealing.

The very first thing I've noticed is that Santana is a different person when we're alone than when we're around other people; and maybe I should have expected that. Still, it's not a huge surprise that she would act differently around our friends – and many of them stop by after class and on the weekends in the weeks after she wakes up. I'm used to the Santana that has the need to keep up a certain façade around people like Mercedes and Rachel - and until last August, I didn't even know that there could be more to her. I just didn't really realize how different it would seem, or how much I could miss her even when we're in the same room together.

I feel like there's a giant elephant in the room concerning us and our friends, and neither Santana nor I want to address it just yet. I see that she tenses up if I stay too close for too long, and I've become almost hyperaware of the way the corners of her eyes tighten or how her lips tug downwards if I seem too concerned with her hair or if I run my fingertips over the span of her knuckles where anyone can see. Her response is subtle, but it's enough to make my spine straighten and an achy tension to settle in just behind my eyes. It's frustrating in the most intangible way, and I don't know why it feels like I'm losing her even when I spend every day right next to her.

The next thing I notice is the striking contrast between how Santana behaves around Danika, her cleaning lady, and her mother. I've never spent any amount of time with Mrs. Lopez, and even when Santana was in the hospital I had almost no contact with her. I don't know when or how often Maribel visited her only child – I imagine it was awkward for her, since there was no way to predict when Dr. Lopez would check in – but I rarely saw her. I know that it doesn't mean anything, because she could have gone when I was at school, but especially in the early days I was surprised by the lack of her presence. I spent Christmas next to Santana in her hospital bed, surrounded by the depressing decorations that the nurses of Lima General could muster and watching _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ on the twelve inch television screen, and I never caught sight of Santana's mother.

I hope that she spends time with her while I'm at school, just like I tried to tell myself she did when Santana was in the hospital. As it is now, the only interaction between Santana and her mother that I witness is the daily visit which brings Santana's supper, and the furtive, almost mouse-shy way Santana's mother looks at her. Santana goes cold and hot all at once, the second a knock sounds on her door, in a way that only she can pull off; her shoulders square and her jaw tenses, and the look behind her eyes is acidic. They speak to each other in clipped Spanish – which always sounds extremely angry to me, no matter what they could be saying – and then Maribel leaves without a backwards glance.

Sometimes Santana shares her food with me, if everyone from school has gone home that day. She's introduced me to enchiladas and tamales and chilorio. Before, the extent of my experience with Latin food involved Taco Bell and the occasional night out to El Chico's with my family.

Honestly, to me it all tastes like different levels of spiciness and sourness and a flavor I can't actually identify, but it reminds me of Santana.

At first, I tried to hide from her the way most of the food made me sweat. She would cut herself a bite of beef enchilada from the heavy terracotta plate, and then with an effortless flick of her wrist sever another portion and lift it casually to my lips. I was a bit charmed by her feeding me – and with no more than a wrinkle between her eyebrows, as she thumbed through her phone with her other hand or flipped through the pages of a magazine – but then I quickly got distracted by the way it was hard not to cough and sputter. And sometimes, Santana douses whatever dish is in front of her with salsa or hot sauce, which makes it nearly unbearable.

I thought I was pretty convincing, for the most part, at first, but eventually Santana caught on. It might have had to do with the way I would grimace as soon as the scent of the food hit me, so spicy and pungent that it would make my eyes water from across the room, before Maribel even sat it in Santana's lap. Or the way I guzzle water from a bottle between every bite (and my mouth still felt almost numb from heat). Either way, one day I was preparing to suffer through another plate filled with rice and burritos and food that would give me more heartburn than I experienced while I was pregnant when Santana stopped, halfway through a bite, and leveled me with a slant-eyed look.

"You don't like this, do you?"

"Hmm." I'm nervous, suddenly. The reason I never spoke up about how painful it was to sit through a meal with her was simple; I didn't want to offend her, or – more likely – have her make fun of me because I can't handle her ridiculously spicy food. "It's okay."

"No," Santana snorts, and the fork clatters against the plate when she sets it down. "You hate it. Don't lie to me, Quinn Fabray."

"Uhh," I shift on the bed next to her, folding my knees into a crisscross position. I run my fingers over the thin silver bracelet on my wrist, spinning it slowly. "It's just, kind of spicy."

"This?" Santana's voice is incredulous. "This is spicy? It's not even close."

I'm still trying to think up a response when Santana just laughs. "Do you want to order some Chinese?"

It makes me smile. "Sure."

"Of course, we'll have to make sure not to get you anything too spicy from there, either," Santana's lips curve in a smirk. "Your poor white girl taste buds can't handle it."

"Santana." My voice is pleading. "You aren't going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance, Tinkerbell," Santana smiles when she says it.

The thing about that is, at least Santana is eating – and as the days crawl by, I can see the way her skin fills out again, the way her cheeks swell even more when she smiles. It's gradual, and part of me thinks that maybe she won't ever be the same again, but I try not to focus on that. Instead I think more about how grateful I am that she's here, and she's okay, and that nothing worse happened to her.

In contrast to the cold way she treats her mother, Santana is almost shy and strangely open with Danika. I don't particularly understand their relationship, and the woman never spends more than ten minutes in Santana's room, but it's filled with her guttural, broken English and what might be a strange, bastardized Spanish, and Santana grinning from ear to ear.

When that happens, I like to sit back and watch, because I feel like I'm being exposed to a rare and beautiful phenomenon. It's like seeing a robin in the middle of winter, or snow in the late spring. A kind of everyday miracle that makes you wonder about life and its many intracasies. I've never seen Santana the way she is with Danika, though their visits are brief and I understand almost nothing of what is said between them.

Occasionally I'll catch Santana watching me watching her, and her face will drop in self-deprecation, as if she's embarrassed to be seen so open and so warm. It makes a small part of my heart break to think that Santana would feel the need to hide any part of her, but particularly this part.

Still, in another way, I understand Santana and why she would want to keep certain aspects of herself tucked away from the outside world. Especially the most tender parts, the parts most liable to bruise.

Xxx

Santana is getting stronger every day. Her mother takes her to physical therapy three times a week, and before the end of the month she can make short trips around the house without help. It makes something inside me slowly unwind, something I didn't even know had been tightened to begin with. I can tell that Santana feels my anxiety when I watch her do something as simple as walking, because occasionally she'll look at me from across the room and when she catches my gaze, her face will immediately react, sometimes with a smile and sometimes with a frown.

"I'm not going to break, Q," She said, the last time this happened and she caught me staring at her with my lip trapped between my teeth. "Even if I did fall, I would live."

_I can't just turn off the worry._

I want to say it, but I know it's the opposite of what Santana wants to hear, so I don't say anything.

* * *

She isn't going to come back to school, a fact that irritates her more as the days pass.

"Figgins says if I take summer school then I might be able to graduate next year," Santana explains, her jaw on edge. "But it's too late to go back this year. I've missed too much."

"Not surprising." I'm trying not to irritate her, because I can see her building herself into a fury as she paces around the inside of her room. I take in small details all at once, the sharp edge of her computer desk, the corner of her dresser. I want to leap up and grab her, and set her gently on her bed, away from all the things that could hurt her if she fell suddenly.

"It's because that Vishnu-worshipping kumquat hates me," Santana hisses, her fists clenching.

"Principal Figgins is a Christian."

"Shut up, Q," Santana picks up a globe paperweight from her dresser, turns it impatiently in her hands, and then flings it back down again. It rattles and smacks against the wood before it rolls behind her dresser with a dull _thunk_. "I'm so sick of this place! I need to get out of here."

I know that it's useless to try to reason with her when she's like this. Before the accident, Santana's aggression and irritation would have a grating effect on me. It would make me want to react with claws and venom, but now I just want to hold her until she calms down.

I stand up and close the distance between us, and tentatively run a hand down her back. Santana's spine is still sharp, pressing against her black t-shirt, and I can see the definition of her shoulder blades inside the fabric. She pauses, her restless hands freezing, and I can practically feel her heartbeat beneath my palm.

Slowly, Santana turns around, and she won't look at me, though we're close enough to kiss. She sighs, her eyes flitting to the corner of the room, and she cinches her fingers in front of her waist. "I don't even have a car anymore," Her tone is so forlorn and piteous. "My dad won't buy me another one, so I'm practically under house arrest. I'm going crazy."

We haven't been this close to one another, upright and face-to-face, since before her accident. I've missed the way her head tilts slightly to the right and back, in order to meet my eyes, and the way her lips part so slightly from here. "Do you want to go somewhere?"

"Now?" Santana sounds surprised. Her gaze darts towards mine and then away, and I could swear her cheeks darken, even though I wouldn't know why. "Where?"

"Anywhere you want."

The moment hangs, suspended between us for a beat, two, while Santana looks at me – really looks – and I hold my breath, expectant. I want to kiss her. My heart starts to knock in my chest, my lips begin to tingle, and all the blood rushes to my head. Something in Santana's eyes darken, her pupils shifting in a ring of chocolate, and it seems like the world stops spinning.

"I can't," Santana says, weakly, and it snaps me out of my stunned haze. I blink, swallowing a heavy breath, and then give a single dazed nod. "My mom. She won't – she'll worry."

I don't think Santana is very concerned with her mom worrying about her; and I think she knows that I know that. The palm of my hand slides gently against her arm, and I'm surprised by how warm her skin is beneath it. Santana flushes and looks away, and the spell is broken between us. I step away from her and she shifts, gliding around me.

"I have to go," I feel like my own voice is coming in from a distance.

Santana sits on the edge of her bed and looks up at me.

"You don't really have to,"

I don't understand anything about Santana, even though I try – and sometimes I do a good job of convincing myself that I do. The way she's looking at me now, her eyes pleading, makes me think she wants me to stay. It tugs at my heart, making everything inside me feel liquid and heavy.

I remember the second before, when we breathed the same air and I could almost taste her, and it splits me in half.

"What do you want me to do, Santana?"

Santana's face softens until it almost breaks, and I can so easily see the way things are warring inside of her. She glances into her own lap and then back up to me, and her hair hangs in dark ringlets around her face.

"Stay with me." She almost whispers it. "Please."

I know that I will never be strong enough to deny her.

That night, after we change and slide beneath her comforter, Santana wraps her arms around me and lays her head on my shoulder. I can smell the herbal scent of her shampoo and the minty waft of her toothpaste, and also the dark, warm smell that is the difference between Santana now – alive and awake – and Santana before, asleep and comatose. It smells both spicy and sweet, like cinnamon, and also a warm, rich smell like overturned earth. The scent is strongest in the places most intimately Santana, like the crease behind her ears and in the crook of her neck. I slide my hands through her hair and run a finger there, brushing the soft skin, and Santana stretches, snugging closer to me.

We spend almost every night like this, curled together with every part of our bodies touching. During the day, we exchange glances and small touches, and sometimes the way Santana smiles at me makes me feel like my heart is going to melt.

But Santana has been awake for nearly a month now, and we haven't kissed, or said _I love you._ I feel it every day; the words engraved themselves on my bones and under my skin, and sometimes it pounds inside of me incessantly just like a heartbeat. Part of me is dying to say it, but Santana is hard and brittle like flint, and it makes me feel nervous.

I kiss the top of her head, and I feel her breath hit my neck. She flings an arm across my midsection, winding even closer to me. Like always, Santana falls asleep before I do. I wait, watching faint light reflections dance across the ceiling, until she starts mumbling and murmuring, her lips brushing the side of my shoulder.

A lot of things changed when Santana had her accident. But at least this hasn't. And I'm grateful.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm so sorry for the long wait for this. I appreciate everyone who is still reading. Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"You know something I've noticed?"

It surprises me when Santana says that. I glance up from my history textbook to see her sitting with her back against the headboard, a tablet cradled in her knees. The glow from the screen reflects off her face, and her eyes are downcast. Her fingers skim the screen gently, almost without thought. I don't know why, but something in her tone of voice makes me pause.

"What's that?"

Santana takes a breath and holds it, and then slowly her eyes meet mine over her knees. I'm sitting across from her on the bed, and her feet are a few inches from mine.

"I can't remember everything."

It hits me like a slow but powerful wave. It steals the breath out of me, and my lungs struggle against the sudden vacuum. Faintly, a ringing whines in my ears, high and quiet. I'm stunned, and I feel frozen. Santana's eyes are large and dark, and they scan my face, as if trying to take everything in.

"I can remember funny things. Little things." Santana is being careful, as if she's afraid something about what she'll say next is going to shatter me. Part of me knows how ridiculous that is – that _she's_ even remotely worried about _me_, when it's her that is missing pieces. "Like I remember what you wore the first time I saw you at Atherton." A smile picks at her lips, gently. "I remember the way your hair looked when we fell in the mud. But," Santana's breath hitches, now, and her face is concerned. "I don't remember the first time we kissed. I know.. I know that it happened." Her eyes glaze over, slightly unfocused, as if she's trying to uncover the memory. "I can remember – other times. So there must have been a first time. Right?"

I know I shouldn't, but I laugh. "You were drunk. It wouldn't surprise me if you didn't really remember it before the accident."

"Oh." Santana looks relieved, and then suddenly embarrassed. "Why did you kiss me when I was drunk? Taking advantage of me?"

"I don't really know." I laugh. "I probably shouldn't have. You had just gotten done puking."

"Oh, gross," Santana's face wrinkles. She picks her thumbnail down the edge of her tablet. "Poor judgment there, Q,"

I feel relieved for two reasons. First, because – well, Santana isn't losing her memory. And secondly, because we're actually talking about things like kissing. I let out a breath that I wasn't sure I was holding, and then I scoot along the bed until I'm sitting beside her, my back resting against the headboard. Santana shifts and then lays her head on my shoulder. I catch the scent of her shampoo and it reminds me of flowers and the way the air smelled in the late autumn at Atherton. She weaves her left hand into my right, squeezing our fingers together.

"We're going to be all right, aren't we, Quinn?"

Santana's voice is soft and hesitant. I'm not used to hearing her sound like that. It makes my throat ache, and I have to swallow before I can say anything.

"Yes, Santana."

* * *

"Yo! Milf!"

Puck's voice cuts through the milling bodies, and for some reason it feels like something physical grasping me, holding me in place. I grind my teeth together and wait. The other students pass by me, threading through the hallways, and I sigh against the sound of lockers clattering shut, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, doors swinging open. Puck's hand touches my elbow and it makes me tense, but his palms are soft and a little cold. He tugs me towards the side of the hallway, away from the rush of people.

"What do you want, Puckerman?" I'm tired today. We have finals coming up, and all of the extracurriculars are winding up for their end-of-the-year activities – for glee that means nationals. It _would_ mean nationals for the Cheerios, too, but they lost during their regionals. It was kind of hard to see all the girls upset like that, especially some of the ones I used to be somewhat close to. But I can't say I regret the decision not to reinstall myself there. Brittany isn't on the squad anymore, either, and it would be just too weird to do it without her and Santana.

"I was thinking now that Lopez is awake, we could still get our _siesta_ on," Puck smells like a combination of chives and sour body. He faces me next to the lockers and I take time to study his face, eyes narrowed. He starts to get that nervous, hand-in-the-cookie jar expression that he always had whenever we were – well, I'll use the term _dating_ extremely loosely – and I caught him flirting with an underclassmen.

"It's _fiesta_, you moron," I roll my eyes. "And I know you were at a kegger just last week. Something about sorority girls?"

I can't explain why looking at Puck makes me so _angry._ Maybe he just brings back pregnancy flashes. Has anyone ever been diagnosed with PTSD from getting pregnant? If it were possible, I think I could be; and Puck is like one giant trigger for me.

"Hey, don't go spreading that," Puck flashes defensively. He glances around in the jittery manner he has that always makes me feel like he would rather be somewhere else. "That's just a rumor."

I would roll my eyes again, but honestly, it isn't worth the effort. "Sure, Puck. Whatever you say." I resist the urge to run my hand through my hair, because that would just ruin all the time I spent styling it this morning.

"Look, I just think you and your girl need to unwind." Puck shrugs against the weight of his backpack slung over one shoulder.

It sends a strange zing through my body that Puck referred to Santana as my _girl._ I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it – but it's still an odd feeling. "I'm a little bit concerned by how determined you are to get me drunk."

Puck scoffs. "Don't be like that, baby mama. You know that the Puckster has been tamed."

I grimace at him. "How in the world did I ever let you convince me to have sex with you?"

Puck's head whips around when he hears someone else calling his name. "Just think about it!"

I watch as he dodges through the line of students, heading towards someone – maybe Finn – on the opposite side. I don't have long to think about it, though, because Mercedes comes up beside me just then and hooks her arm through mine.

"Is he bothering you again?" Mercedes' smile is big and it makes me smile back at her.

"Not really." I shrug and allow her to lead me down the hallway, towards my chemistry class. "I'm beyond being able to be bothered by him."

Mercedes grins, like I said something clever, and then she angles her head. "Well, I think it's his approach that's the problem."

"What do you mean?" I'm a little wary of the tone she's taking. Usually Mercedes doesn't try to play coy.

"I just think.." Mercedes pauses, and I can tell by the look on her face that she feels a little guilty. "The boy has a point, okay?"

My eyebrows shoot up. "I never thought I'd hear you say that about him."

Mercedes laughs and pats my arm with her free hand. "Me either. But when he's right, he's right." She levels an even look at me. "Maybe you _should_ try to have a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to hang out with all your friends and not look like you're being tortured."

"Are you sure?"

Mercedes just laughs, shakes loose, and turns down a different hallway as they split. "Think about it, Quinn!"

* * *

I skip glee club that day, mostly to save myself the pang of watching Rachel act crazy. I mean, I guess I've been doing that for the majority of the last two years, but it gets a little bit intense when you have the words "Rachel" and "New York" in the same sentence.

I decided to be innovative and pick up something to eat on the way to Santana's house. She's been better about withholding the Hispanic food, but sometimes I feel guilty that it's always _her_ feeding _me._ Ironically, the only thing that sounds good to me is Taco Bell. I shrug it away and order tacos through the drive-thru. I don't bother to call Santana for two reasons; firstly, I know her order, and secondly, she'd give me some kind of lecture about how I'm trying to fatten her up.

I notice right away that Mrs. Lopez's car is absent from Santana's driveway. It's odd because she almost never leaves the house. Well, maybe it's a good thing.

We don't talk about it, but I know Santana wants her parents to get back together. She took their separation a lot harder than I could have anticipated she would. Santana has always been very close-mouthed about her family, so the little things I get come in trickles that I'm not even sure she realizes she's divulging. In some ways, Santana and I had very similar lives, in that our parents are successful and largely absent (my mother's been a stay at home wife my entire life, but that doesn't make her any less absent than Santana's, who works – _worked _– constantly). I at least had my sister to keep me company, but Santana grew up alone.

That's not entirely true – I know she had Brittany. But can a friend really replace family? I know that in a lot of ways, Brittany was family for her (along with people like Danika and the mysterious Viola). But that doesn't change the fact that Brittany has a sister of her own, and parents, and I know that Santana must have been an incredibly lonely child. It makes my heart ache to think about it, so I push it aside as I open her front door and make my way up her stairs. The house has that eerily quiet, empty quality that houses have when the parents aren't home.

I brush my knuckles against Santana's door briefly, and then push it open without pause. She's sitting in the center of her bed with her phone pressed to her ear, and she smiles at me when she sees me. The reaction on her face is instant, and it sends warmth through me. Late afternoon sunlight streams through her black lace curtains, leaving the room gloomy with errant rays of sunshine patterning the carpet. I set my purse and backpack down on the floor next to the door, and then settle in on the edge of her mattress.

Santana takes the plastic cup from my hand and makes a face at it after taking a sip. I just smile at her and pull out her burritos from inside the sack.

"No, I totally get it," Santana says, and unwraps one of the burritos. She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear and rips into a packet of the hot sauce. The smell stings my nose and I just pop the top on the nacho cheese container, dipping my taco into it. "Yeah. It's fine. I'll see you then."

"Who was that?" I ask, bemused, as Santana douses her entire burrito in hot sauce. She takes a bite and swallows before answering.

"Puck." Her eyes dip in my direction, almost playfully, as she squirts even more of the sauce along the edge of the rolled-up burrito. "He wants to have a party this weekend before they go to New York."

"And?" I ask carefully, watching her face.

"We're having one." She flashes me a grin, and without asking, pulls the small container of liquid cheese out of my hand. She dips her burrito in it, and I sigh a little forlornly at the streaks of red it leaves behind.

"Hmm." I take another bite, using the palm of my hand to catch the lettuce that tries to fall. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's the best idea."

I guess she can tell that I'm less than enthusiastic about it, because her face warps into a scowl the next instant. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

"Nothing." I finish my taco and Santana doesn't bother waiting until I'm done chewing to grab the last of my queso. "Puck's been bugging me about a party for weeks now. I'm tired of hearing about it."

"Well." Santana is oblivious to the fact that I'm watching in mild horror as she stirs hot sauce in with the cheese, and then dunks her burrito in it. "The good news is, we can have it here, because my mom has to go to some business meeting or something. So we don't have to worry about driving."

"Santana." I pull myself away from focusing on the orange mess in that plastic cup. "I don't think you should be drinking."

"Why not?"

I stare at her, trying to decide if she's serious. Her blank, slightly defensive look tells me that she is. "Um, maybe because you suffered a massive brain injury?"

"Oh, can it, Quinn," She shrugs dismissively, and takes another drink out of my cup, even though we both know she doesn't like Pepsi. "I'll be fine."

"Ugh, Santana," I take the cup away from her, silently lamenting the fact that it's probably going to taste like hot sauce and beans now. "Ask your dad about it."

"Oh, right," Santana snorts. "That's a great idea. 'Hey, Papi, you think it's a good idea if I get a little bit wasted this weekend?'"

It never ceases to amuse me the way she puts on a faux-Mexican accent when she mocks speaking to one of her parents.

"I'm serious." I crumple up the taco and burrito wrappers, and shove them inside the Taco Bell sack. "It might not be safe."

"God, you're so boring, Q," Santana smirks, stretching out on her bed, resting on her elbows. "I'm tired of being safe."

I don't have time to think up a response to that, because she's grinning at me like she has a secret that she just can't keep.

"I already invited everyone, anyway,"

"How is that even possible?" I frown. "You _just_ got off the phone with Puck."

"Shh, Q, don't question me."

I sigh and settle down against her pillows. I know arguing with her is a lost cause. She's going to do whatever she wants, regardless of what I have to say about it. And part of me does feel a little bit guilty – Santana has been cooped up in this house for weeks now. Sometimes people come by and visit, but there's only so much fun to be had in her bedroom.

For some reason, it hits me that Santana said she invited _everyone._ I look over at her abruptly, and she's texting on her phone.

"Did you invite Brittany?"

She glances up, a little sharply, her eyes sweeping my face. It takes her a moment to respond, and then it's just a nod, with the tip of her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

I can feel anxiety growing beneath my ribcage, a bundle of nerves and adrenaline. Santana is watching me, now, her phone forgotten. We look at each other, the light in the room slowly fading, and I can tell Santana is waiting for me to say something.

"I think there's something I should tell you about Brittany," I start, hesitant, and I can see that it has an alarming effect on her. She tenses, her whole body going still, while the look in her eyes sharpens. We don't talk about Brittany, as a general rule – not even when Brittany's here, or I know that it's Brittany she's texting when we lie in bed together.

"What?"

Her voice is carefully neutral, but it feels hard and clipped.

"Well, the thing is," I don't stop myself from running my hand through my hair this time. "We kissed."

Santana inhales, and then her eyes go unfocused. She doesn't move, but I can see her fingers curling into her palms, making fists.

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

I wince, because I wasn't expecting the force of her words. They aren't loud, but they're low and dangerous, and it makes something inside of me recoil.

"She was drunk." I try not to shrug, even though my shoulders are tense and uncomfortable. I can tell by the way Santana's lips are pressed together that she's trying to process. "It was just one time."

"Once?" Santana breathes. "How was it?"

"Bad." I say it instantly, because it really _was_ a bad kiss and all it does is hurt me to remember. It hurts to remember the way Brittany looked at me right before she started crying, and I know now that that image is going to be overlaid in my mind by the look on Santana's face at this moment. It's a mixture of anger and pain and things I can't interpret.

"I don't believe you," Santana says, her eyes narrowing. "Brittany is a good kisser."

I absorb the words as I would a physical blow, and even though they sting, I accept them. Santana is, in a way, trading hurt for hurt – part of me realizes that. I try not to react, at least not in a way that would give Santana satisfaction, or a reason to become irate. "I know," I pause, fighting around the ache in my chest. "But it wasn't something I enjoyed."

Santana watches me, as if trying to discern if I'm being honest. A moment passes between us, and I feel like I can't breathe; it isn't until she shifts, breaking the spell, that I exhale.

"No big deal." Santana says it so nonchalantly that it seems forced. She sits up and tugs her knees to her chest, runs a finger along the edge of her toe. "Will you paint my toenails?"

Santana's complete shift in attitude hurts almost more than it would if she had blown up and started screaming. It's hard to see her like this, so close and yet so distant. I don't know what I want. I want to pull her close to me, and hold her there, even though I know it would feel like touching the sun.

"Yeah," I breathe out quietly, and clear my throat. "What color do you want?"

"Red." Santana answers, without looking at me.

* * *

The rest of the week passes with a kind of tense silence between us. For once, Santana doesn't object when I pick up my backpack and go home at the end of the night. Instead she sets her jaw and doesn't look at me as I leave. It feels strange to sleep in my own bed, and not have her mumbling and murmuring against me in the night. I think it makes my mother happy, though. She seems surprised every time I walk in the door, offering me a wide-eyed looks, but the next morning she's awake and handing me bagels on the way out. I feel a pang of guilt for staying away so much, because I know she misses me. But we don't talk about it. We don't talk about anything.

Friday comes and I think I'm prepared for the little party Santana decided to throw. I have half a mind to skip it, just because of the weirdness between us and because, really, the combination of us and the glee club plus liquor just seems like a bad idea. All the different times I've drank with Santana flash through my mind, including that unfortunate episode at the bar in Morrow and the night that Santana spent getting wasted on tequila in our dorm room. All of it points to this being an abysmal mistake, but as much as I want to avoid it, I just can't.

Rachel is buzzing with enthusiasm about it, because she believes it will create a sense of camaraderie among the glee club. Most of the rest of them are just amped about alcohol and a chance to unwind, and because Santana has a pool. It's too cold to swim in my opinion, but the rest of these nutcases don't agree with me.

"Now, Quinn, are you certain that Santana's parents don't mind if we stay the night?" Rachel comes up beside me, falling in step with me as I walk towards my car in the school parking lot. I huff in a breath, but at least she isn't wasting my time like Puck likes to do. I just nod, jiggling my keys in my palm. The air is crisp and bright, and all the trees of Lima are so green it almost hurts to look at them. It's a reminder that summer is only a few weeks away, and that soon cloying, moist heat will cling to everything, withering the leaves and grass into a dead brown.

"Good." Rachel's smile is bright to the point of being spastic. I never realized how often she shows her teeth before. "Do you think Santana minds if Kurt comes along, and brings his beau?"

I frown at her, squinting against the sunlight. "I don't know, Rachel. Ask her."

Rachel's smile falters, but only slightly. "I thought you would know—"

I sigh, this time letting some of my annoyance seep to the surface. "I'm sure she doesn't care."

"Great!" Rachel gives me one last grin, and then she finally leaves. I watch her cross the asphalt to her car and hop inside.

On the way to Santana's house, I'm trying to wrap my brain around the idea of a drunk Rachel Berry. I'm sure it's happened before, but I never paid much attention to it. I decide that it will be something worth seeing tonight.

Santana is sitting in front of her vanity when I walk into her room, carefully applying lip gloss. I smile at her, even though her back is to me, because it's such a normal, everyday thing – even though I don't think she's put on makeup in the last month. It brings back memories of cheer camp, sleep overs, homecoming dances and glee club prep.

"You look pretty."

I didn't realize it was going to come out sounding like some starstruck bumpkin, but the way Santana flashes a pleased smile at me in the reflection of her mirror eases the awkwardness of it a bit.

"Thanks." Santana pops the lid of the lip gloss back on and uses the pad of her index finger to soften the glisten. She's still wearing sweatpants and a tank top, but her hair has obviously been styled. I run my fingers along the tips of it.

"You need a haircut."

Santana smiles at me again. "So do you. Maybe we'll go together tomorrow."

It makes me indescribably happy to know that Santana has snapped out of the moody funk she's been in, but it's also encouraging to hear her talk about wanting to leave the house. I haven't pushed her about it, but I know she has to have a mad case of cabin fever. I do, and I have the luxury of leaving.

"I think I'm going to let it grow out." I haven't actually decided to keep my hair short. I didn't think about it while Santana was out, and I only notice how much it's grown because she brings it up.

"It's weird for me, sometimes," Santana says with a soft half smile. "Some days, I wake up and forget that it isn't still December. Then I see you and your long hair and I feel like Sleeping Beauty after her date with the spinning wheel."

I don't quite know how to respond to that. Santana keeps smiling, but she looks a little vulnerable while doing it. I just squeeze her shoulder.

"Help me pick out something to wear."

A few hours later, Santana is ready. She badgered me into changing out of the jeans and shirt I wore to school, and I feel pretty ridiculous wearing her clothes.

"You look good, Q, stop fidgeting," Santana comments from the side. She can see me pulling at the hem of the slick tight dress, tugging it downwards.

Santana is admiring herself in the full length mirror tacked to the back of her door. She's wearing a different variation of a slick tight dress, in a shimmery red.

"You're going to feel stupid about this when one of the boys gets a wild hair and flings us into your pool."

Santana pauses, as if considering this potential, and then nods once. "That's okay. This dress isn't designer."

I roll my eyes, but Santana plows on, oblivious. "Besides, the pool hasn't been uncovered yet. It's probably icky and green and gross."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Think that'll stop them?"

"Eugh," Santana's face wrinkles, and at that moment, the doorbell rings.

Santana smiles at me, and she disappears into her closet, searching for heels. I just sigh and walk down the stairs, still barefoot. I tug Santana's door open with one hand, and use the other hand to yank the dress down further.

"Whoa! Lookin' good, hot mama!" Mercedes grins and pushes past the doorframe. She's holding two six packs, one in each hand, and gestures with them as she passes through. Puck follows close behind her, with Lauren, and Rachel and Finn bring up the rear.

"Damn, Fabray," Puck says, his eyebrows lowering.

"Hey, fuck off, Puckerman," Santana calls from the top of the stairs. All eyes shift towards her, and I can feel everyone in the room take a collective breath. I smirk, glancing towards Finn, who covers his crotch uncomfortably, and even Rachel's mouth has dropped a bit.

Santana works her way down the stairs and I can tell she knows every bit of how good she looks. She grins big, and winks at me when our eyes catch. I chuckle because it's so typically Santana. She loves being the center of attention. This time she definitely deserves it.

Another round of knocks has me pulling the door open, and Brittany, Kurt and Blaine step inside. I nod in greeting to Blaine, and am surprised by the friendly arm Kurt throws around my neck. I pat it, a perturbed, but he moves on quickly enough. The next instant the living room has erupted in chatter, the daze everyone was in because of Santana forgotten. Puck has a case of beer propped on his shoulder, and Kurt has a bottle wrapped in a paper sack.

"How did _you_ get alcohol, ladyface?" Santana asks with a quirked eyebrow.

Kurt smiles, lifting it like Vana White displaying a consolation prize. "I have my ways."

"I feel overdressed," Brittany says with a small smile. For the first time I take in that she's wearing a powder blue bikini top and cutoff jean shorts.

"That's okay," Puck says suggestively. "Just means you'll have less to take off later."

"Don't be a pig, Puckerman," Rachel says with a scowl.

"Where's Artie?" Finn asks, glancing around.

"He's coming, with Mike and Tina," Brittany says.

"Okay, well, let's take this out on the deck." Santana uses her hands in a circular motion, herding them towards the back of the house.

I come up behind them and close the door leading out of the house. It's still warm, even though the sun is low in the sky. I can tell by the way the air smells that it will turn nippy before the night ends. I immediately regret my bare arms and legs.

"You look good, Q," Santana comes out of nowhere, and I can feel her breath whisper against the back of my neck. I suck in air, freezing, and I can almost sense her smile. "So stop fidgeting."

I turn my head and give her a nervous smile, and she looks pleased as a cat in cream with my obvious discomfort. She runs a hand down my side, fingertips against my ribcage, and it makes me shiver. I watch as she wanders over to Puck, who is struggling to fit an iPod onto a dock connected to an outdoor surround system. She smiles up at him in the breezy, flirtatious way she has, and it makes him smirk down at her.

Before long, between the two of them, they manage to get the system working, and Pink starts thumping out of the speakers.

"Here, Quinn,"

I turn to see Brittany offering me a bottle of something. Her smile is quick and light, and I accept the bottle out of reflex. It's only passingly cold, and the glass sweats profusely against my palm. It's slippery and hard to grasp, and I struggle with trying to pop the cap off.

Brittany's hand steadies mine, and she uses her other one to twist the lid. It's one quick, hard motion and she grins at me as she tosses the bottle cap aside. I take a sip of the liquid and grimace because it's bitter. "Thanks."

Brittany nods, and when I look up, I see Santana watching us from the other side of the deck. Her expression is hard to read, because of the distance, but she doesn't look happy.

I'm relieved to hear the doorbell ringing, so I can escape the uncomfortable position I have between Brittany's easygoing smile and Santana's glare.

The doorbell rings again, impatiently, and I sigh under my breath. "Okay, jeeze," I mutter, even though nobody can hear me.

I'm expecting Mike and Tina when I wrench the door open, but instead, I see Sam. He's tall and his yellow hair is shaggy, falling across his forehead and flipping out over his ears. He smiles at me when he sees me, and for his credit, his eyes stay on my face. "Hey, Quinn!"

"Hello yourself." I step back and gesture for him to come in. I forgot all about Sam.

I glance outside and see Mike's van pulling up, so I decide to wait. I turn back towards Sam, who is watching me with a wide grin. "Everyone else is outside. Out back." I nod in that direction.

"It's okay, I'll wait."

I don't know what to make of Sam. He's a new kid, so I don't spend any time with him regularly. Everyone seems to like him – except Finn, which is neither here nor there to me. He's tried to start up conversations with me in the past, but I never had the presence of mind to pay attention to it. Now, though, by the dopey way he's looking at me and his willingness to hover, I'm starting to think that all those not-so-subtle hints Mercedes dropped about him had to do with something he might have said to her.

"Hey." I wave a little bit as Tina, Mike and Artie approach. I can't help but laugh at Artie wearing swim trunks and a wifebeater. "You look nice, Tina!"

She does, in a skirt and a blouse. She smiles at me, and the pair of them reach down and grab Artie's wheelchair, lifting in tandem. It surprises me that Tina is so strong, but she doesn't even struggle with the weight of it, pulling it up the short steps of Santana's porch. She pushes Artie through the door, and I close it finally behind Mike.

Mike and Sam trade high fives, and their dorkiness amuses me. I catch Artie staring at me, and when he notices, he adjusts his glasses and blinks owlishly behind them. I just shake my head and lead them towards the back of the house and out onto the deck.

The music is loud, but not overwhelming. Right now there's a Coldplay song on, and Rachel is laughing and dancing with Blaine. Lauren looks to be in a deep discussion with Kurt, sitting on the steps, and Santana and Puck are arguing. Sam waves a hello and makes his way over to where the beer is piled against the edge of the deck. Brittany sits on the deck railing, her legs swinging freely in the air. Artie wheels himself over to her, and Mike and Tina go to talk to Mercedes.

I sigh, and settle myself down onto a lawn chair. I lost track of my sweaty beer bottle, but that's okay. I don't intend to drink much. I'd rather keep a level head and do damage control, since it's obvious – from her volume and how she keeps interjecting Spanish into her conversation – that Santana won't be doing it.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

Somehow, as the sun fades from the sky, the level of the music goes up, and everyone else seems to blur at the edges. They laugh too much, and loudly, and more than one impromptu karaoke session has broken out in the midst of dancing. It's a far cry from the parties full of beer pong and body shots that the cheerleaders and football players throw, but still, it's fun to watch. I love these goons, even when they're doing something stupid – like Mike trying to walk along the edge of the deck wall, one foot in front of the other, his body wobbling from inner vertigo. I only caught the end of it, but he toppled over the edge, falling onto the grass. Everybody thought this was hilarious, except Rachel, who shouted hysterically at him about spraining his ankle and ruining their chances at nationals.

Mike, from the ground below, hopped up, no worse for the wear, except for the grass stains on his shirt. He isn't limping now, but that could be the alcohol in him. We probably won't know until tomorrow. But he's dancing fine – he and Brittany are having fun entertaining everyone else.

Santana goaded Puck and Mike into igniting the fire pit located on the far side of the deck, though I'm not precisely sure what exactly they chose to burn. Santana is tipsy, but not drunk yet. I can tell because she hasn't started crying at any point.

Because I'm not saying much, nobody really notices me. I get a chance to watch them in plain sight from my seat in the lawn chair. Rachel gets drunk quick – like she's new to drinking. She's cute, slurring her words and launching herself from one person to the next, singing their praises as she goes. Mercedes and Lauren are talking animatedly from the corner, and I can see Puck watching them with a hungry look. Artie and Sam are having some kind of strange discussion about a video game – I think Mario Brothers – and Tina, Mike, and Brittany are dancing together. I have to double take because in the dim, flickering light, it looks like Brittany and Tina might have kissed. I can't say for sure, though, and nobody else seems to notice, so I let it go.

Even though I know it's a long shot, I'm praying that nobody gets too drunk and nobody has sex with anyone inappropriate. I don't know where Kurt and Blaine have gone off to, but I try not to think about _that._ I'm more worried about Brittany becoming the center of an Asian sandwich and how awkward that might be tomorrow, in a sober light. I'm doing a mental head count – made difficult by the way Rachel keeps changing directions, so I sometimes count her twice. I go through the entire group a few times before I realize I have no idea where Finn and Santana are.

That notion makes everything inside of me go cold, like a bucket of ice water slammed against my face. I stand up slowly, hoping to not attract anyone else, but there's no luck in that. Sam sees me out of the corner of his eye and tries to wave me over, but I shake my head. Rachel stumbles against me, hooking a hand around my shoulders. "Hiii, Quinn!"

She smells like fruity liquor, like the wine coolers that always make me think of Puck. Her eyes are too bright, and her smile is too big. "Hey, Rachel."

"Are you having fun?" Rachel sounds very concerned, and her face is close to mine. "You don't look like you're having fun. Here! Have a drink!"

Rachel thrusts an empty bottle at me, and it makes me laugh. "Stop, Rachel. I'm fine. Have you seen Santana?"

"Nope!" Rachel's attention shifts, and she flings herself away from me, towards the circle of dancers. I watch as she attaches herself to Brittany, and I notice immediately the difference in the way their bodies fit together. It isn't the same kind of closeness Rachel had with me a moment before, or the various shades of it she's had with the others throughout the night. Rachel's arms weave around Brittany's neck, and Brittany's twist around her waist, fusing them together. I glance around, paranoid for their sakes – but nobody else is paying attention.

I scan the group one more time, and this time I notice Puck is missing. That, more than the absence of Finn and Santana, riles me. I take the steps down into Santana's yard, where it's dark and quiet. The sounds of the party feel far removed, and I watch the ground as I pick my way around the side of Santana's house. I'm wary of things that might be creeping in the shadows, like spiders or snakes.

I take a few steps and round some bushes, and I hear the strangling, wet sounds of someone getting sick. I pick up my pace, rounding the corner, and stop short at the sight of Finn doubled up, heaving.

"Finn? You okay?"

"Ugh," Finn groans, and shakes his head weakly. I try not to laugh, but I can't help the chuckle that squeezes out of me.

"Have you seen Santana?"

Finn shakes his head again, and then promptly vomits on the grass.

I pat the small of his back as I pass by him, and I begin trotting the perimeter of the house. There's nobody else out here, and I come back full circle to where the party is. I climb up the steps of the deck and sigh when I notice more people missing – Mercedes, Brittany, Rachel, and Sam. I'm quickly beginning to realize that this is almost out of control. Santana's back door is cracked open, and I can see the faint glow of lights inside.

I push myself inside. I can tell someone less than sober has been through here, because the chairs to the dining room table are all askew. I'm only vaguely familiar with the lower level of Santana's house, since I spend most of my time upstairs in her room. My first instinct is to go up and check to see if she's there, but I hear a muffled thud coming from somewhere to my left. Warily, I poke my head into a hallway, and see the thin crack of light coming from beneath a closed door.

"Santana?" I'm not exactly whispering, but I'm apprehensive. I don't know what's going on in there – but a dozen scenarios flash through my brain. The most vivid is the image of Santana wrapped up in Puck, or worse, Brittany. Then brief glimpses of what Kurt and Blaine might be doing dart around, and I close my eyes, forcing them aside. Tentatively, I wrap my fingers around the doorknob, and then, with a quick movement, I push the door open.

"Oh!"

I'm not precisely _shocked_ at the sight of Brittany straddling Rachel on a day bed, but it wasn't one of the things I considered. Rachel sees me over Brittany's shoulder and her eyes go wide, but I quickly close the door behind me. "Sorry!" I whisper, though I doubt either one of them can hear me.

Well, at least that means Santana isn't with Brittany somewhere. I don't know if I'm relieved or disturbed by that idea. What is going _on?_ How did this happen?

I can't think about it now. I have to find Santana. I'm more worried, now, that she's with Puck or Sam. I suppose there's a chance she could be with Mercedes somewhere, but I find it unlikely. Probably Mercedes is raiding the fridge in the kitchen or passed out on the couch.

I check both of those places on my way through Santana's house, but they're deserted. I glance up the stairs, to see if there's any sign of life, but nothing. I have no choice but to go back outside.

The group is more subdued, and Sam and Mercedes have reappeared. I don't question their disheveled appearance or the way they glance at each other shyly over the fire pit. Instead, I say, "Have you seen Santana?"

Mercedes shakes her head, and Sam shrugs. Artie is asleep in his wheelchair, his glasses crooked on his nose, hand clasped loosely around a bottle. I tug it out of his grasp and set it down, so it won't spill all over him while he sleeps.

"If you guys get tired, go inside and sleep."

Mike and Tina are making out. I don't know where Lauren is.

I decide to go check on Finn again, just because I can't think of anything else to do. I have no idea where Santana might have gone, and it's a little bit alarming to me now. I know she vanished before Puck did, so there's a chance they aren't together. But I have a sinking suspicion that this is not the case.

I cross the place where Finn's vomit is congealing in the grass, and there's no sign of him. I sigh, because every moment that Santana is missing, I feel more and more hopeless that this is going to turn out badly for me. For _us._

I circle to the front of the house, again, and find Finn asleep on the front porch. I'm too tired and frustrated to bother with moving him. I figure I'll send someone – Sam, maybe, or Mike – to move him later.

When I round the final corner that leads to the west side of Santana's house, I know, like a rock dropping in my gut, that Santana and Puck are meshed together against Santana's vinyl siding. I can't make them out clearly, but something inside of me just knows it. I pause, letting it sink in, and take a few more steps, drawing closer. In the darkness I can see Puck's mohawk bobbing, and Santana's thin, bony hand pressed against the small of his back.

It takes a moment to process, even though this has been my deepest fear since Santana disappeared. I can't make heads or tails of the emotions crashing through me, like a stampede; first the shock, chased by the sharp sting of pain. Quick on the heels of that is grief, an immediate sense of loss – but all of that, all of it, is swallowed up by rage.

I can't – I can't even articulate the way it slams into me, white hot, like acid or boiling water. It makes the blood roar in my ears and my fingertips tingle; it surges through me, quick and venomous.

"No! I'm not watching you do this to yourself anymore!" I don't even realize I'm doing it, but a second later and I'm on Puck – I grab him by the shoulder and _yank_. He stumbles back, off balance, and he yelps when my palm connects with the back of his neck. "And you!" I don't even know what I'm doing. I push at him and he falls back a few feet. "Don't you have a _girlfriend, _Puckerman? Jesus Christ!"

"Hey!" Puck yelps again, immediately rubbing the back of his head. "Stop!"

"Quinn," Santana blinks slowly, but I can't pay attention to her. I know it isn't fair – it isn't Puck's fault – but there he is, ruining my life _again._ I want to punch him. I'm not a violent person, and I want to beat him until he can't stand anymore.

I'm on the brink of launching myself at him again when he shakes his head, both of his hands coming up to shield himself. "Nah, man, you're crazy. I'm out."

He stumbles around a thicket and back into the backyard, and I round on Santana, fuming.

"Are you fucking serious, Santana? It could have been _anyone_ but him!" I don't realize it, but I know I'm shouting at her. She has a soft, open expression on her face; she looks on the brink of tears. But I don't _care!_ All I care about is how it feels like my insides are caving in, like something is trying to claw itself out of my ribcage; I can't decide if it's fury or sorrow. "_Anyone!_ I would rather see you fuck Brittany or Tina or _Rachel_ than Noah Puckerman!"

Santana starts to cry, her face dissolving in on itself. For once, I'm not moved by the sight of her tears. I still want to break something. I want to find Puck and skewer him.

"No! You don't get to do that! You don't get to cry!" I reach up and angrily push the tears off of her face. "You don't get to feel sorry for yourself!"

"I don't _want_ anyone else, okay?" Santana chokes out. It surprises me, because I had thought she was beyond speech. "I want to be with you, Quinn!"

"Then why!" I know my voice is high pitched and incredulous. I keep my hand pressed to her cheek, and I see her dark, wet eyes searching mine. I can feel her breath against my hand and the heat from alcohol rising on her skin.

"I saw you talking to Brittany! And to Sam!" Santana sobs, and fat, wet tears squeeze out of her eyes. "I just – it hurt!"

The sad, desperate way she says that cuts through me like a knife. It makes tears well in the back of my throat, squeezing it shut. I can feel the hot moisture behind my eyelids and I have to swallow, blinking it away. "Santana, you are such a fucking _idiot,"_

"I-I know." Santana heaves against me, and I feel the tentative tips of her fingers pulling against my hips. She tugs, gently but insistently, until the space between us is minimal. "Please." Her breath is hot against my face, and it smells like a combination of tears and beer and the lingering, sour scent of Puck. "Kiss me."

I rest my forehead against hers and suck in a breath. Santana looks stricken, her eyes watery and deep.

"This isn't how I wanted to do this," I murmur against her.

Santana shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed, refuting my words. "Please."

I sweep my thumb along the soft curve of her cheekbone, and then angle my head and touch my lips to hers.

Santana's hands tighten in the material of my dress, and the moment hangs between us. I can feel my heartbeat in my lips, and then, faintly, I can feel hers, too, pulsing in a rapid staccato. Santana exhales hard through her nose, and the next instant her mouth is open, her tongue pushing against my lips. I let her slide it against them for a moment before I open and let her in.

It's hot and slick, and the taste is jarring and bitter; but underneath the sourness of alcohol is the faint, intrinsic taste of _her_ – and I try to focus on that, instead of the foreign flavor that must be part of Puck. I slide my hand from her face to her hair, and tighten my grip, pulling her close. Her tongue slips against mine, drawing it out, coaxing me deeper into the kiss. I let my tongue dance into her mouth, and I can feel her breath hitch and catch.

It ignites something in me, something that had been kindling so low I forgot it was there. A tightness low in my belly, a tugging from my breastbone to beneath my navel. As if she can sense it, Santana pulls me even closer, until our hips bump together and I can feel her thighs against my legs. Santana groans, quietly, and I can feel the vibrations against my lips and tongue.

I break away from the kiss, and I can tell Santana sees me better now; the dampness is gone, replaced by a sharpness, a narrow-eyed hunger. She rocks against my hips, insistent, and I bite my lip.

"Let's go," Santana whispers.

I let her lead me around to the front of the house, up the porch, over Finn's slumped body. We pass through her dark living room and creep up the stairs, quietly, and I notice that Santana is missing a high heel.

Santana's room is dark, and I stop her from turning the lights on. Instead I sit her on her bed. Through the gloom I can see her watching me. I reach behind her and peel the zipper to her dress down, revealing the bony expanse of her back as it goes. Santana stands up, sluggishly, and lets me slide the dress down her body, pooling at the floor.

She sits back down and watches as I do the same, pulling the dress up over my head. I drop it to the side, and I watch Santana's eyes follow its descent. Quickly, before she can find my face again, I push her down against the bed, scooting us until we lay in the center of the mattress. Santana's hand grips low on my back, tracing the elastic of my underwear, and I watch her face as I slide my hand beneath her, seeking out the clasp of her bra. It gives away, easily, and she shifts, allowing me to draw it from her.

Before Santana – before the kisses and the caresses, the nights spent whining and panting against each other – I used to think that two women making love is one of the highest forms of narcissism. What else could it be, to want to worship a body so like your own?

But looking at her now, laid out beneath me, and thinking back on all the times I've seen her, naked and sweating, I realize that I was wrong. Santana and I are so different. Her skin, even after months of bedrest, is a shaded caramel; mine is like buttermilk. Her hair is dark ringlets against the bedspread, where mine is straight and pale. Stretched out, I can count her ribs and see the muscles taut beneath her skin, and even the divots of her collarbones are different than mine. I lean down to kiss Santana, and this time it tastes more like her, more like my memory of her; it seems right.

I support myself on my elbows, each on either side of her head, and her palms run restlessly down the expanse of my back. I kiss along her jaw, beneath her ear, and I taste sweat there. Santana gasps, arching, when I take her lobe into my mouth and suck gently. I can feel her heartbeat, and my own throbs in response.

I never imagined that just touching her would have this kind of an effect on me. I never thought – before Santana – that I could ever feel like this. Like everything is on fire, intense and raw; like my nerves are on the topside of my skin, instead of underneath it.

I kiss my way down, pressing my lips against her neck and then her shoulder, and slick my tongue against the sharp angle of her collarbone. Santana presses her fingers against me, hard, digging into the skin. She rocks her hips against me, like _hurry up,_ but I want to take my time. I kiss above her heart, once, twice, and then I'm tasting the inside curve of her breast, and she's strangling breaths in her throat. One hand sweeps up against my shoulder, holding tight, as I breathe over the peak of her nipple. Here, too, we're different – Santana's are small and dark, a dusky bronze color, and mine are wide and pallid, a shy pink.

She moans deep in her throat when I lick over one and then the other, and more desperately when I take it into my mouth. I feel her rolling against me as I suck, using my teeth, and she grasps me hard, at the hip and shoulder, as if paralyzed between wanting to hold me in place and push me away.

I shift my weight and use my hand to squeeze over her other breast, pinching the nipple, and now Santana's heels dig into the bed and her back arches, hard, squeaking the mattress springs.

"Fuck, Q," Santana pants, and for the first time I feel the sharp bite of her fingernails. "Fuck. Please. Quinn."

I don't let her hurry me. I take my time, sampling the inches of her skin that I'd failed to memorize before – because I had thought, foolishly, there would always be more time for it. Our lovemaking is almost always hard, and fierce, and fast; I want it slow, this time. I want to watch her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones, watch her shake as she comes undone. I know that this won't be the first time I do that – but it will be the first time I try to commit it to memory, because I know, now, that there is no guarantee of tomorrow.

Santana shudders when I kiss underneath her breast, and then along a rib, one hand holding her steady, sliding against her torso. She grunts when she feels my teeth against her stomach, nipping, and she pushes me lower. Tiny whimpers escape the back of her throat, pleading, and she shifts her hips upwards.

I taste the skin of Santana's hipbone, and I use a hand to pick at the seam of her underwear. Impatiently, she slides herself up and uses one of her own hands to shove the other side down, in one violent, jerky motion. I smile up at her and draw them the rest of the way down, over her knees. She kicks them off impatiently.

I can smell her, now; a hot, pungent scent. Her legs fall apart, and Santana reaches for my shoulder again, pushing. I just smile as I kiss her thigh.

I can feel the rhythm of Santana's body and how badly she wants me. It makes my head swim and I feel dizzy – almost drunk on the knowledge. She moans, arching again, when I slide my tongue along the crevice between her leg and pelvis, so close to where she wants it. I see her ribs expanding, pushing air in and out, while her free hand bunches against the blanket.

Finally, I kiss the place where Santana is the hottest, and she shudders. I work my lips against it, and she writhes, her hips thrusting into my mouth. I search with my tongue, delving through her wetness, and when I find what I'm looking for, Santana's breath catches in her chest; her nails bite down, and she wheezes out thin, strangled moans.

It isn't anything like I expected. It's better. It isn't like kissing - it's more than kissing; it's like touching the very center of Santana, the part of that I've been looking for this whole time. I can feel her muscles bunch and coil, and her body becomes more restless and frantic, wriggling and shifting.

Santana's breath gasps out of her as I slide two fingers in, and she moans, ramming herself onto me. I go more quickly, now, and when I feel her insides begin to tug, I thrust, hard. I lift my head and slide up the length of her body, and I slam into her so forcefully her body jolts with it. She grips at me, one hand winding in my hair, the other at my shoulder, still, and I watch her as it rolls over her like a tidal wave. Her eyes are screwed tight and her forehead wrinkles. For an instant it almost looks like she's on the brink of crying again, but she gasps, her hips rolling, and her expression changes.

I can feel her insides squeezing my fingers so tight that my wrist hurts from the effort of pushing into her, but I keep doing it until I feel her seize up, her body hanging in mid-motion. I watch her face until all the tension dissolves, sliding bonelessly away from her. Her grip in my hair and on my shoulder finally falls away, and I kiss the corner of her mouth even though she's breathing shallowly between her lips.

"I love you," Santana whispers, so quietly I can almost imagine that I didn't hear it. She shifts, until I've drawn my fingers out of her, and then she slides until our bodies are snug tight together. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

I swallow, because hearing that is like a long drink of water after being out in the desert heat. I didn't even know I was so thirsty to hear it, until I finally did. It keeps spilling from Santana's lips, as if she's brimming over from trying to contain it, and all I can do is hold her closer to me.

"Shh, Santana," I hush her, because it's almost like sobs. I run a hand down her hair and over her back, soothing. "I love you, too."

* * *

**A/N**: Hello everyone! Long time, no see. I'm sorry for the erratic updates. I can't promise it will change anytime soon.

Feel free to contact me on tumblr, if you like. Leave a review and let me know what you think!

This isn't very edited, so I'm sorry for any mistakes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

We fell asleep on top of Santana's blankets, so that halfway through the night she curls into me, her skin tepid against mine. Me – I always tend to run hot while I sleep, and so it doesn't bother me; but Santana's mother runs the AC constantly, and when I skim my palm down the length of her arm in the early morning I can feel the chill there. My brain is foggy and half awake, but I have the presence of mind to push and tug at her, coaxing her to the head of the bed, so that I can wriggle the blankets out from beneath us and then pull them over her. She doesn't wake up through that, though she mutters half-formed sentences in her sleep.

It takes me a while to fall back asleep, because everywhere Santana touches me is a little cold. I shiver when I wrap my feet around one of hers, because her toes are so chilly. She murmurs and draws close, until our bodies are touching at every point, and I smooth a hand down her hair, before resting my hand against the shell of her ear. My thumb finds the curve and slides down it, before rubbing her earlobe between my thumb and forefinger. I fall asleep like that, with my hand resting against her cheek.

* * *

It's full on morning when I wake up again, and it's because Santana is on top of me.

I smile at her, sleepily, and grin at the sight of her bare-chested above me, her hair spilling in dark threads around my face, tickling my shoulders. I reach up, still sleep-drunk, and pull her close for a kiss. Part of me is still astounded that I'm kissing Santana, finally – after all this time. I remember our last, before her accident, and then I think about the first last night, which was bitter and tasted too much like tears, and alcohol, and regret - this one is slow, and sensuous, and a bit sloppy; it tastes like copper and sleep and Santana, and it's perfect.

I'm too caught up in the kiss to notice, at first, the way Santana is rocking her hips against my lower abdomen, slowly. The rhythm is persistent, however, and her tongue, velvet-slick against mine, draws out a low moan. It starts up a tension beneath my breastbone that draws everything tight, straight past my navel to in between my legs. My nerves begin to tingle and buzz, but it's leisurely and gentle at first. The build-up is slow and languid, and Santana is kissing me so deeply and thoroughly it's hard to think and hard to breathe.

My tongue is full of Santana, and everywhere her bare skin touches against mine rouses, surfacing like a slow burn. It makes me anxious in an indescribable way, a nagging sensation that I know has no word - it's the same thing that makes my own body respond to Santana's rhythm, the gentle rocking, and little by little my breathing grows coarse and haggard, a struggle. Santana's lips are soft and thick, and they stroke and stroke against mine, over and over again, barely allowing me to get in any air. My lips feel full and hot, and my heart is beginning to pound sluggishly in my chest. Slowly, excruciatingly slow, Santana drags her mouth away from mine, and I suck in air – too cold against my warmed skin. But then Santana is fixing her mouth to my jaw, and beneath my ear; her tongue flicking there makes my hips jolt and my fingers squeeze the comforter. When she takes my ear between her teeth, my vision goes white and my entire abdomen squeezes impossibly tight. I arch beneath her, breath exploding harshly from my chest, and I reach up to grasp her, because I feel like I'm spiraling and I need something to hold on to.

"I got you, Q," Santana breathes, and it makes goosebumps erupt down my neck and shoulders. "Just let me." She kisses the shell of my ear, and it's wet and ticklish and it makes every single nerve in my body throb in response.

I can't help the way my body tenses, how hard it is to relax when Santana travels lower, her mouth skimming along my skin, leaving a trail of fire behind it. My body is still twisted up in sleep, so I have the odd double feeling of being sluggish and weighted, but the way Santana is touching me wakes me up, makes my heart race and nerves jitter in my ribcage. Santana slides her hands up and down my sides, and she looks at me, her dark eyes intent and knowing – almost as if she can sense my hesitation, how much of a struggle it is for me to lie still. My instinct is to flip her over, to taste her and hear her and touch her; but I know what Santana wants, so I force myself to stay still. Santana's palms against my ribs encourage my breathing to steady, even though the way she's hovering over my breasts makes me squirm. She smiles – just one, devilish grin – before she licks her tongue out over my nipple, making me hiss and clutch at the bedspread.

I feel Santana skirt a hand – her left one – down, to tease the skin along my hipbone, and beneath my abdomen. The muscles jump beneath the skin there, and now everything inside of me is accelerating in anticipation. I pant and whine beneath the way Santana's mouth is teasing my nipple, and the way her fingers skim with the tips of her nails even lower, lower. I want her to touch me so badly – everything is hot and swollen, throbbing and wet. I can feel it leaking down onto the mattress, and I know I should be embarrassed at how obvious I am. But I'm not. I can't think about anything else other than Santana, and the way she's playing my body expertly, like a master pianist.

Blindly, I slide a hand up, scratching the skin of Santana's side and shoulder, but she catches it with her free hand before I get to her hair. Slowly, deliberately, she kisses my wrist, and meets my eyes over them. "No," Santana murmurs, and presses my hand back down to the mattress.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere, aching in my ribs and throughout my body, down to my fingertips. I whine and roll my body against hers, insistent, and I think Santana smiles but my eyes are squeezed tight, while my hands fist in the sheets.

Santana uses her arm to pull my thigh up, up so that I'm spread wide open, and she slides down until the crook of my knee rests against her shoulder. I know she can feel my heat, because I can, and it's slick and thick and I have to hold myself still not to grind upwards into her. Santana looks up at me when she slides two fingers in, and the way that I'm positioned means she can go in deeply. I groan, and roll my hips, and Santana lunges forward, until my knee is pressed against my chest and her face hovers just above mine. I'm gasping and panting, now, because I can feel her inside me – deeper than I thought possible, deeper than ever, I think. She holds herself there, and through my fluttering eyelids I can see her watching my face, and her eyes are dark and drowning

Slowly, Santana rolls herself into me, and it makes her fingers go in even more. I hitch out a desperate breath, and my hips move of their own accord, shuffling out a frantic pace that's hindered by the way Santana has my body folded beneath hers. A moment passes, and Santana slowly draws out, only to roll forward again – this time harder, surer, and with a third finger; she slaps into me with a little grunt.

I can't help the way I gasp, or how my body vibrates, because it feels like Santana is touching the most secret and private place of me. She pauses, again, before repeating it – pulling out briefly and then slapping back inside. It's slow, but sharp, and it takes my breath away; all I can do is grip the sheets and close my eyes, and thrust my hips against her, pleading.

Suddenly, shockingly, Santana increases the pace – it goes from slow and deliberate to quick and almost brutal; the sound of her slamming into me fills the bedroom, a wet, slapping sound. I groan, overcome, and bite my bottom lip, breathing hard through my nose. Santana is relentless – she uses her whole body to roll into me, and each movement shoves my thigh even farther down against my ribs, and shuffles me a little higher on the bed.

It almost hurts. It stretches me, and it's harsh and fast and I'm swollen and tight, but it feels better than anything I've ever experienced in my life – perhaps that's the nature of _everything_ with Santana; that it's wild and raw and almost violent, and it hurts, but the ache feels a lot like love, and it's delicious and beautiful and intense all at the same time.

Santana's breaths are harsh, I can see the way her skin is flushing, and I know that the stickiness between my legs is all over her. I can feel the sweat from her chest against my knee and calf. But she keeps up the unforgiving rhythm, and I wind up so tight so quickly I barely have time to catch my breath before I'm hanging, suspended – all of the air in my body frozen, paralyzed; then it's escaping in a great whoosh, and my hips buck and thrash, and everything inside of me goes liquid gold.

My heart is still pounding, beating hard and loud in my chest, when Santana peels herself away from me, slowly, allowing my leg to slide down. My hip is sore from the angle, and my knee joint is stiff, but Santana crawls on top of me, covering my body with hers, and I don't think about that anymore.

I think about the way Santana licks me off of her own fingers, while her ear is nestled between my chest, listening to my heartbeat. I can think of almost nothing else, except the skin and the sweat between us, the immense heat between my thighs, and how perfect and wonderful I feel.

I make a wish – a feeble one, I know, but a wish nonetheless – that I might always feel this perfect and wonderful. And if not forever, for at least for as long as I can.

* * *

Santana raises her head from where it lies on my chest, her eyebrows knitting together. I focus in lazily on her face, because my body still feels like it's floating; my fingertips skirt along the edge of her cheekbones, and then down, to the soft corner of her lips. Her eyes shift towards her bedroom door, and then she sits up even further, resting on an elbow.

"What is going on down there?" Santana's voice is scratchy.

I shift, lifting my head slightly, and finally I can hear it:

There's some kind of commotion going on downstairs, and the noise is muffled against Santana's closed door.

She moves a lot faster than I do – she leaps out of bed and starts pulling on clothes from the piles on the floor. I sit up more slowly, and run a hand through my hair, trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes.

"If those fuckers break anything," Santana mutters, her face stormy, "I swear to god I'll rip them apart."

I'm beginning to catch on to the urgency of the situation when I hear a dull crash. Santana goes rigid, her body freezing, and a look of horror crosses her face for an instant before it's overtaken by rage.

Santana rips her door open and stomps down the stairs so quickly I barely have time to register her turning the doorknob.

I slide out of bed and jab my legs through a pair of shorts, picking up a discarded tanktop on the way out. I'm still shoving my arms through and twisting it over my head when I start down the stairs, but I can hear the cacophony before my feet hit the landing.

"Have you lost your fucking _mind?!"_ That's Santana.

"Just tell me WHO IT WAS!"

"Finn! Calm down!"

Another crash, followed by the sound of a scuffle. Puck and Blaine are clinging to Finn's arms, and the vein in his neck is throbbing. His face is red. It makes my eyebrows rise, because the last time I saw him this angry it was because he realized –

Oh.

My eyes immediately go to Rachel, who is standing behind Mike and Tina with a look of hurt and commingled fear on her face. I sweep my gaze around the room, but I can't find Sam, Kurt, Mercedes, or – Brittany.

Artie is sitting in the corner with his hands clasped in his lap, still ridiculous in his swim trunks, blinking behind his glasses at everyone.

"Rachel! I know you're lying!"

"Don't do this here," Blaine says, trying to be reasonable. "This is Santana's house. This is disrespectful."

"Damn fucking straight," Santana spits.

Finn shuffles loose from Blaine, and he goes towards Rachel, but Santana steps in front of him. He pulls up short, a look of surprised fury on his face, and he moves to shove her out of the way—

"Finn! No!"

In a flash I'm down the last step and grabbing his arm, yanking him away from Santana. He seems even more startled to see me, but I don't give him enough time to react – instead I push him away, and put my body between his and Santana's. Puck and Blaine reattach themselves to him, and he bristles, but doesn't struggle anymore.

"I know something happened," Finn is trying not to yell, but the look on his face is one of pure rage. "I know you're lying to me!"

Rachel doesn't say anything, but her silence – coupled with the way she stares at the ground – is full of guilt.

Santana narrows her eyes, looking between the two of them. "What the hell is going on here?"

I look at Puck, and he meets my eyes over Finn's shoulder – for some reason he seems more guilty than Rachel does.

Just then, Sam enters the living room from the kitchen, and his mouth goes wide at the scene.

Finn sees him and his expression immediately changes, at first from shock to sudden realization and then –

Well, he slams into Sam with the force of a semi-truck, and everyone takes up a collective gasp when Sam plummets to the ground. Finn knocks back and punches Sam in the face once, twice, before Mike and Puck wrestle him away.

"Damn," Artie comments, his eyes wide.

I slide a hand around Santana's elbow, because I can sense from the way she's standing she wants to do something. I don't squeeze, just rest my fingers and palm against her skin. She flicks a glance at me and I can see that her eyes are hard and glinting. Rachel and Tina stand just next to her, and both of them have their hands over their mouths.

"Fuck, Finn," Santana's voice seems almost tired.

"What the hell, man!" Sam is clutching his face, with blood dribbling out from between his clasped fingers.

"Stay the hell away from my girlfriend!"

Just then, Brittany rounds the corner, and simultaneously her eyebrows shoot up and her jaw drops. I watch as her eyes dart around the room – Sam, just at her feet, Finn, Mike and Puck a few feet away, and finally.. yes, I watch as her eyes lock onto Rachel.

For some reason, it makes something inside of me untwist, just a little bit, because she didn't look at Santana.

I know that there was a time when Santana would have been the first person Brittany looked for in a room.

I can tell, just by the way her face drops into almost instant impassivity that Brittany understands what's happening here. She looks back at Finn and then down at Sam, and she crouches down, touching his shoulder with her fingertips.

Brittany is one of those acutely perceptive people – more adept at it than I am, surely, since I never realized that about her before now.

"Listen here, ladies," Santana's voice cuts into the tense silence. "I don't know what happened – I don't care. But if you broke that table, Finn—"

"I'll pay for it!" Finn spits, furiously. His gaze is still locked on Sam, who is carefully climbing to his feet with the aid of Brittany.

"With your _tire shop_ paycheck?" Santana's eyebrow quirks.

"Not exactly the time," I murmur.

Santana's fingers brush against my hipbone in acknowledgment.

"What really is going on here?" Santana says, fisting her hands on her hips.

"Rachel slept with Sam last night!" Finn screams.

"_What?"_ Tina sounds appalled. She looks at Rachel and almost inches away from her.

"Whoa, dude," Sam says. His shirt – already stained with who knows what – now has splotches of blood all over it. His voice is muffled and stuffy, and he swipes tentatively at his face.

"That is completely not true, Finn," Rachel speaks up, finally. The look on her face is one of timid mortification, but touched with a kind of defiance. Everyone in the room turns to look at her, and (even now) she kind of preens under the attention. "You're being absurd."

Finn's ribcage is heaving with the struggle to breathe, and for some reason this conflict feels more real and gritty than anything that ever took place in the choir room. Maybe it's because we're all standing within ten feet of each other, and I can smell the alcohol leaking out of everyone's pores, along with unwashed sweat and morning breath. Finn has a smear of dirt on his cheek, and everyone looks ruffled and worse for the wear.

"Whatever, Rachel," Finn says finally. He shakes loose from Mike and Puck, and then turns on his heels, stomping towards the door. Puck follows after him, but I catch his eyes as he goes, and it gives me another odd twinge. Blaine slips out right behind Puck, and the door shuts almost too quietly, given the outburst that just took place.

"What the hell?" Santana is the first to say anything. She rounds on Rachel, who cups one elbow with the palm of her other hand, and won't look up from the ground. Brittany moves away from Sam and wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulders, pulling her close.

Santana cocks her head at that, but doesn't say anything else. She rolls her eyes dramatically and then steps forward towards Sam, dragging him towards the kitchen. "C'mon, Lips, I have frozen peas for you."

Everyone looks around at each other, a little stunned, but eventually the tension breaks. Rachel and Brittany disappear into a room behind the stairs, which I've never been in before, and then everyone else seems to start murmuring at once. Mike looks at me abruptly and says, "We're gonna head out. Okay? Tell Santana?"

I just nod, even though I'm somewhat baffled by the suddenness of it all. It's just past noon, but nobody has been awake for very long – Mike and Tina shuffle out of the house, hoisting Artie as they go. The living room is momentarily empty, but I can hear the low sound of Santana and Sam conversing in the kitchen. I wonder where Mercedes is, if she's still sleeping – if she knows anything about anything that's going on.

I do a quick search of the first level of Santana's house, opening doors and shutting them after looking inside. Most of them are untouched, but some places in particular have been hit hard. The living room – where Finn slept, and maybe even Puck, Mike, and Tina (I think maybe Artie slept outside) – has the most damage. I stare at the doorknob to the room where Brittany had Rachel were, and try to fight down my own curiosity. I want to open it and look inside – I want to see if it's obvious, at all.

Honestly, maybe nothing happened. Maybe they were just.. no. I know what they were doing. I resist turning the knob, though, because for some reason I can't shake the image of Brittany and Santana, even though I know it was Brittany and Rachel.

I peek in the bathroom, and it looks like it's seen better days. I sigh, because I know – I _know_ – that Santana isn't going to clean it. She probably wouldn't even know how.

Finally, I reach Santana's den, and it looks much like the living room: a little bit wrecked. Mercedes is sitting on an ottoman, holding her head in her hands and staring at the carpet. Her hair is a mess. I'm a little surprised to see Lauren Zizes sitting on the couch, rubbing her eyes, but only because I had sort of forgotten she was here.

"Hey." I clear my throat a little. "Good morning."

"Shh, not so loud," Mercedes says.

"What was all that about?" Lauren doesn't look at me when she talks.

"Uh—" I shake my head. "There was a fight between Finn and Sam."

"Coulda saw that coming," Lauren snorts. "You glee kids are totally lame and predictable with your drama."

Mercedes slants a glare at Lauren from between her fingers, but doesn't say anything.

"You guys want to see if there's anything to eat for breakfast?"

Slowly, Mercedes nods and draws herself up. Lauren does the same thing, and they pick their way over the discarded piles of clothes and scattered beer bottles.

We can hear Santana laughing when we enter the kitchen. She's smiling up at Sam, who leans with his hipbone against her kitchen counter, a wet, gray rag against his face. I can see his grin even beneath the washcloth.

"This kid here is pretty funny," Santana says, amused. "You never told me that about him." She flashes me a smirk.

"Oh, Quinn doesn't think very much of me," Sam says with a dopey smile. "I asked her out using my best James Dean impression and she still said no."

That wipes the smile off of Santana's face.

Alarmed, I look between them – Sam is clearly joking (he _never_ asked me out, but I do remember something about an impression) and he isn't catching on to the sudden chill coming off of Santana.

Mercedes just grunts and scowls, scooting out a chair from Santana's breakfast bar. "Where is everyone?"

"Most of them left," I answer, maybe too quickly. Santana's eyebrows are low on her forehead and she's glaring at Sam, who is still oblivious and talking through the cloth.

We all turn when we hear the back door open and close, and then Kurt and Blaine wander in.

"Hey." Kurt says, a little uncertainly. "What did I miss?"

Santana – distracted, now, from Sam – just scoffs and crosses her arms. "Did you really sleep outside, Kurt?"

Kurt blushes and Blaine ducks his head.

Santana rolls her eyes and walks over to her refrigerator, pulling it open. She hands Sam a jug of orange juice and then continues shuffling around inside. "I've got eggs and bacon, but absolutely no idea how to cook them." The fridge absorbs her voice, and I wonder if anyone else notices me staring at her ass. "Oh, and cinnamon rolls."

"I'll do it."

I shrug when Santana pulls herself out of the fridge, to stare at me with an obscure expression. "What? I like to cook."

Mercedes just laughs into her clasped hands.

* * *

Mostly Santana and Mercedes spend the entire hour that it takes to scramble eggs, fry bacon and bake cinnamon rolls arguing over what happened last night. Sam is oddly silent, though his nose is swollen and there's a bruise creeping up his cheek. He sits at the edge of the table, the long way across from Lauren, who just watches the entire scene from behind her glasses with her lips pinched together.

Kurt and Blaine are grass stained and smell like freshly cut lawn, and I don't want to know why. They stay quiet, sipping orange juice out of the same glass. I glance over and nod at Blaine when the timer for the cinnamon rolls dings. "Will you go get Rachel and Brittany?"

It's a little awkward when he returns with them, because I can feel Santana practically boiling with the urge to pummel them with questions. Brittany meets the curious gazes frankly, and with an almost catty twist to her lips – her eyes seem even more slanted, as if she has a secret. Rachel looks around with furtive, nervous eyes, and but she seems to settle down when nobody bombards her with questions.

I portion out the eggs and bacon onto plates, and put rolls on two of them. I sit down next to Santana and set her plate at her elbow, gesturing for everyone else to collect their own plates.

"What happened with Puckerman?" Lauren asks, once everyone has settled back down. The boys stand with their hips against the countertops, supporting a plate with one palm and a fork in the other hand. Santana, Mercedes, Lauren, and I are the only ones with chairs – Brittany and Rachel eat standing up, squeezed in between the chairs, sharing table space.

I catch the way Santana tenses beside me, and I watch as her left knuckles whiten around the silverware. She chews her bite of egg slowly and doesn't immediately look up from her plate.

"He left." Blaine says. "With Finn."

Lauren's face is impassive, but she nods in a way that makes me feel even less relaxed.

"Anything else?"

The room goes silent, and I wonder if anyone else here knows – about him and Santana. I glance around, attempting to be subtle but likely failing. I get nothing from the boys, who just look between each other and shrug, and I can't get good enough eye contact with either Rachel or Brittany. But Mercedes is staring hard at Santana across the kitchenette, and her jaw is set.

"Nothing." I say.

I don't know why I feel the need to protect Puck – really. He deserves everything coming to him. But I don't really know how Lauren would react towards Santana. And I can't help it if my first instinct is to protect her.

I feel bad. I know that Lauren deserves to know.

She won't look at me through her glasses, but I get the feeling that she knows that Puck forgets about her almost as much as I do.

* * *

The only ones who stay behind to help clean up are Kurt and Blaine, which seems to surprise Santana. She watches Brittany usher Rachel out with slightly parted lips and a look of mild shock on her face, but she blinks it away when Mercedes pulls her into a hug.

"It's been good seein' you, girl," Mercedes says with a smile. There is still awkwardness there, and some sternness behind her eyes, but she gives Santana a friendly pat on the shoulder just the same. "I missed your crazy ass."

"You too, Wheezy," Santana smiles back, but it fades away when Lauren catches her attention.

"Thanks for letting us crash." Lauren adjusts her glasses on her face. "It was definitely interesting."

"Yeah." Santana's tone is guarded. She waves goodbye to them as they leave, and turns to me with widened eyes once the door is closed. "Is that Zizes girl a serial killer or something? She totally freaks me out."

I chuckle a little bit, but I'm still bothered by the implications of Puck and Zizes. I wonder if Santana has the same thoughts that I do, or if she feels anything beyond general discomfort.

At one time, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I never tried to understand anything of what Santana was thinking – back in the days before we were anything to each other. I remember being baffled by her, by her non-relationship with Puck and the predatory way she watched Brittany, and the way she would hiss and spit at anyone who came too near either of them. I never understood how she was so hot and cold with Puck, one minute claiming him as her property and the next acting as if she could care less.

I remember how guiltless she was. I remember how she seemed to walk around as if everything bestowed upon her was a gift she deserved, and how she never allowed anyone to make her doubt herself.

I was always secretly jealous of that Santana – the one who smiled like the devil and did exactly as she pleased, took whatever she wanted, and lived only by her own rules. Even though we both played the part, I never felt that way. I felt as if every second on top was gained at a price, and the price was something indefinite and intangible; something that changed me, as the years wore on.

I know, now, that my presumption of Santana wasn't the truth. I know better the things she sacrificed to be that person – I know that it changed her, too.

I don't actually know Blaine that well, or even Kurt, if you want to know the truth. Kurt and I walked in different social circles before glee, and even afterwards I never had a reason to talk to him very much. He's not one of Santana's favorite people, either, but I think I remember something silly about him and Brittany dating sophomore year.

Still, they walk around with black trash bags and throw away the remnants of the party, while Santana mostly sits on her kitchen island, feet swinging freely, devouring a can of Pringles. They don't say a lot, but they smile at me whenever we happen to cross paths. Occasionally, Kurt laughs at something Blaine murmurs.

By the evening, Santana's house is looking pretty normal, considering everything that happened to it. The table Finn knocked over is no worse for the wear, and the bathroom – gross – is pretty much clean. I could do nothing about the congealing vomit in the bushes, but Santana told me not to worry about it. Her mother never goes outside.

"It was nice of you to stay and help."

Santana stands next to me, her arms hanging awkwardly by her side, while we bid our goodbyes to Kurt and Blaine. They seem just as uncomfortable with the ordeal as she does – so I try my hardest to look pleasant. It's something I've perfected over the years. Blaine, at least, shakes my hand, and Kurt looks torn between offering a hug before he finally does. It's one of those soft, tentative, patting hugs that are over almost before they begin. Santana's face tenses slightly, but she can't avoid her own one-armed hug. We both say goodbye with a little bit of relief when they finally leave.

Santana plops down on her couch once they're gone. It's close to getting dark and Santana hasn't turned any of the lights on, so the room is gloomy. I settle myself beside her, and she automatically snakes her fingers through mine. Her hand is completely relaxed and limp, but I notice that her fingers are a little cold. I'm spending too much time looking at her knuckles and the contrast of our skin tones to realize that she's watching me in the semi-darkness. When I finally glance up, it kind of startles to me to see her eyes fixated on my face.

"What?" I say with a hesitant smile.

"I really am sorry." Santana says it lowly. "About last night. About Puck."

I feel my breath catch in my lungs, and everything inside of me stills. I didn't expect Santana to apologize – in fact, I didn't expect her acknowledge anything at all. That's how Santana and I operate, at least so far; that's why I'm so shocked by her apology. I'm doubly shocked by how easily she says it, and how open and honest her face is.

I'm still working through the way I feel – which is caught up in how I felt last night, so angry and bitter, and then the strange floating happiness that followed – when Santana squeezes our hands, drawing my attention back to her face.

"But I have a question." Santana says it more carefully, her tone guarded. "Last night, you said—" She pauses, takes in a breath. "You said, 'anyone but Puck.'"

I nod, raising an eyebrow slightly. I know what I said.

"But not just that. You said.. Tina, Rachel, _Brittany,_" Santana is watching my face intently now. I can tell she's concentrating by the faint line that forms between her eyebrows, and the way her lips are hard around the edges. "You said all of those names. But not – not anyone else. Not Sam or Finn." She swallows, looks down to her lap, and then back up at me. "Why?"

At the beginning of this conversation, I had felt anxiety begin to gnaw in the pit of my stomach and work its way out, encasing my bowels and slither up through my ribcage. But when Santana asked that – something of an old feeling took over, an old resignation. I can't exactly describe it; the anxiety washed away, replaced by a kind of sad knowing.

"Santana." I squeeze her fingers, and then take her free hand in my other. I rub the pad of my thumb over her knuckles, feeling the little bones beneath the soft, lined skin. "If you don't want to be with me, I get it." Even though I don't. "But I'd rather see you with Brittany than Puck, or Rachel than Finn, because I know – I _know_ – that that's what will make you happy. That it's who you are." I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible, and I don't know what affect I'm having because Santana won't look me in the eye.

The silence builds between us, and I'm growing more worried by Santana's limp hands and unresponsive face. I know that she's thinking, but her fingers keep getting colder and something about that makes me feel like she's drawing away. I want to rub her hands in mine, to warm them; I want to pull her close, and keep her there.

But I don't. I just watch her, while she thinks, and squeeze her fingers, trying to keep the cold away.

"Quinn." Santana says on an exhale of breath, too big to be a sigh. "I understand what you're saying." Slowly, her eyes click into the place where they're connected with mine, and I feel an almost physical jolt from it. "And I'm sorry that you've had to think.. _anything_ like that." She shifts until she's facing me more clearly, with the front of her body facing mine. It makes my throat tighten and ache, slightly, because of the way she's looking at me. "I don't want to be with anyone else. Nobody. Not Brittany, not Puck, not anyone." She squeezes my hands, which have now gone limp. "I want to be with you. I love you."

I don't want to cry. I really don't. Santana has made me so angry and frustrated lately – even though I've been so patient. I've been trying to tell myself, over and over again, the things Santana has had to go through, much more than I have, it seems. But right now, when Santana finally addresses it, I actually _feel_ it; I feel how helpless and hopeless I was during the months at Atherton, knowing that I loved her, impossibly, when she couldn't love me. Dealing with the bile of jealousy clawing at my throat because of Brittany – someone I felt I could never compete with, and who I never wanted to be jealous of, because I love her as one of my best friends. Seeing Santana behave as if she were oblivious to my feelings, when all I do is agonize over hers. I'm not bitter, and I don't regret it. I love Santana, and I tolerate the things about her that make me crazy and which don't make sense to logical people.

"Say something," Santana whispers. I've been quiet for too long. I can see how uncertain she is, how fragile she must feel, because she actually said something true. That almost never happens with her, so I know that it's like a precious gem that I should treasure and keep close to my heart. She's gnawing on the skin of her lower lip, and her eyes are glittery and nervous.

"You know that I love you." I say it around the huge lump in my throat. It's hard to speak, when hot tears want to leak out of the corners of my eyes. I blink, and I know that a few have escaped. "I want to be with you, too."

Santana's breath hitches, and then she squeezes my hands so tight my fingertips go numb. In a moment, she slides from the cushion beside me until she's settled across my lap, and then she wraps an arm around my neck, hugging me with her whole body. I hold onto her, because I feel like everything inside of me is trembling and cracking, and I can sense the same thing happening in her – her breaths are ragged and wet, and she buries her face against my neck. Her arms are like vices around me, and I can only stroke my hand down her spine and hold her around the waist. I can feel her hot breath against my chest, and her nose and eyes are pressed so hard against my neck I can feel my pulse pound against them.

"I was scared," Santana whispers, and in the middle of that whisper is the quavery, broken tone of someone on the brink of crying, "I was so scared that I had fucked it up."

"No." I suck in a deep breath, even though my chest hurts with the weight of emotion too big to keep in. The corners of my eyes are shedding tears, but I'm trying to keep it out of my voice. "No, never. I love you, Santana."

"God, I love you," Santana chokes. She isn't trying to keep her tears inside anymore, and I can feel them scalding against my throat and collarbones. "I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry. And I love you."

In the end, I guess that's all I've ever wanted to hear.

I know Santana is an idiot, and she does tend to fuck things up. It's the nature of the beast – something I can't control or contain. It's Santana's struggle. It's something she has to overcome on her own, of her own volition. I know I can help, by being patient, and by loving her.

Which is all I've ever wanted, anyway.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks so much for your patience. I appreciate every review, follow and favorite I get! Thank you guys. If you have any commentary or questions, you can direct them towards my tumblr.

Also this is only mildly edited, I apologize for the shoddy work.


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